Will Not Remember, Cannot Forget
by cynicalshadows
Summary: We all have demons we can't escape, and even Chuck Bass had been innocent...once. Chuck/Blair, with a lot of interference by Georgina!
1. Chapter 1

"_There's something wrong with that level of perfection. It needs to be…violated."_

-Chuck Bass-

The bottle spins lazily in the darkened room. The four gathered around it watch avidly amid laughs and nudges. It's a scene repeated in bedrooms and basements across America. But this is not some musty basement; this is the Upper East Side and the bottle slowly coming to a stop did not once contain soda but Dom Perignon.

From her perch by the window, Georgina Sparks watches with disinterest. She takes a drag on her cigarette and sighs. If only it were laced with something a little stronger than tobacco. But no, just cloves tonight. She's being _good_.

She watches as the bottle stops on Blair Waldorf, as New York's own ice princess and the blonde girl next to her kiss. It's very chaste, hardly a kiss at all. _Très_ boring. Of course, the pair then collapses into laughter, all smiles and hugs and gangly limbs. Georgina hates them a little, hates their easy rapport with each other. But as they disentangle themselves and return to the game, Georgina hates Blair more. She inwardly sneers as the petite brunette neatly rearranges her skirt and smoothes her curls under that restraining headband. She was too neat and prim and fucking perfect for Georgina's taste. No, no Georgina much preferred the blonde.

Serena van der Woodsen, her golden hair a halo around her smiling face, is everything Blair Waldorf is not. Georgina can see it in the splay of her legs upon the floor; hear it in the effortless way she laughs. Serena is free in a way Blair is not, in a way Blair will never be. Blithe and beautiful, Serena hasn't yet come to realize her own power. The effect she has on people. The way eyes are drawn to her. The way the boys in the room stare and can't look away. One of them, at least.

No, happy-go-lucky Serena is still oblivious to her potential. But then she is young. She'll learn eventually. Right now, though, she's still innocent enough to be malleable. With a little effort, Georgina muses, she'd be a perfect companion. Already, the nymph had a propensity for fun. She was spirited and unafraid to be the center of attention. It wouldn't take much to mold her into the ideal playmate, Georgina thinks with a grin. As she puffs on her cigarette and blows a perfect smoke ring, Georgina considers how this might just be the solution to her problems.

Georgina is worldly. It doesn't matter that she is only twelve. In her mind, in her attitude, she is _old_. In the ways that matter amongst Upper East Siders, Georgina is a sophisticate. In this realm of prestige and power, she likes to surround herself with people who are _connected _and know how to have a good time. She likes parties and liquor and older men. But recently her absentee parents had returned. They didn't approve of her _activities_, deeming her crowd too old, too wild. Better by far for their daughter to be with peers her own age. Which is how she ended up here. In suite 1812. Playing fucking spin-the-bottle while "Breakfast at Tiffany's" plays in the background.

She takes another drag on her cigarette and rakes her gaze over the others crowding on the floor in front of the television. Children. Fucking _children_. God, this is a nightmare, she thinks, then smiles, amending that at least it's a nightmare with champagne. She'd brought it, of course, not counting on the kiddies to entertain her. But even with her champagne buzz, the evening's a drag. She doesn't think she can suffer through many more of these mundane social gatherings. Damn her parents and their sudden responsible Mumsy and Popsy routine!

If only there was a way to convince them that their daughter dearest was not "growing up too fast." Already they had relaxed their vigilance since she started hanging with her classmates. But it wasn't enough. She couldn't _relax_ with the threat that they might check on her and end her fun. But a friend her own age might assure them that she wasn't getting into trouble. A _best_ friend would seal the deal. Then their interfering guidance would end, and she could go back to her life. Watching the carefree Serena, Georgina decides that they're going to become BFFs.

But that's a plan for tomorrow. Right now, she's bored. She wants entertainment and nothing amuses Georgina Sparks more than ruining the dreams of others. But whose, and how?

Snubbing out her cigarette, Georgina struts back towards the others on impossibly high heels. Rather than deign to join them on the floor, she settles back onto the leather couch. As she crosses her legs, her dress rides up to reveal the tops of the garters she nicked from Bergdorf's. Her hand absently goes to smooth the fabric back down when she catches Blair's disapproving glance. Her temper flares, and suddenly she has a target. Blair Waldorf needs to be taken down a notch. Her picture perfect life needs a little surprise courtesy of Georgina Sparks.

But of course Miss Manners isn't drinking tonight. She's still nursing her first glass of champagne. The bubbles have long since dissipated, and no way is Blair going to finish drinking a glass of _flat_ champagne. Pity. She'll have to get to her some other way.

Which leaves Blair's friends.

Serena? The blonde _was_ already well on her way to being drunk. It'd be easy from there. But, no. She can't risk it. For now, she needs her. Serena is her ticket out of her parent's sudden need to _parent_.

Perhaps Nate Archibald? He _is_ Blair's boyfriend. With his golden brown hair and blue eyes, he isn't unfortunate looking. It has possibilities. Except Nate is totally clueless. It'd be like kicking a puppy: too easy and not nearly satisfying enough to be worth it.

That only leaves one person: Chuck Bass.

In his pastel suits and ridiculous bowties, Chuck looks like the leading man in the movies Blair favors and is always forcing upon them. Georgina is surprised Blair hasn't noticed it before. But then Blair is too busy mooning over Nate Archibald. But someday she'd notice. They were too well suited for Blair to remain oblivious forever.

Watching him over the rim of her champagne flute, Georgina assesses Chuck Bass. Dark hair. Darker eyes. A smile that tightens things low on her stomach. If only he was older…

But he's not. He's young. Innocent. A boy still with a slight aura of sadness that he hasn't yet learned to hide. That vulnerability just adds to the appeal. Blair will be drawn to it, that secret desire to be loved that shadows his eyes. It's too similar to her own private prayers, the ones that send her careening into bathrooms to vomit her pain away. She thinks nobody knows, but she's wrong. Georgina knows, and she's pretty certain Chuck knows too.

He is too devoted to Blair not to know. He's always watching her, entranced. He looks at her like she is the most beautiful girl in the world and his gaze never strays. Nate's, on the other hand, has already started to slip towards Serena, and Blair is beginning to suspect. It chips away at what little self-esteem she has. She isn't confident enough on her own. She needs to feel like she, and she alone, is special.

Chuck could give her that. Could heal all the hurts inside and make her whole. He is damaged like she is damaged. Together, they would complete each other. It was just a matter of time. Already, Georgina occasionally caught Blair gazing at Chuck as if she was puzzled. Oh yes. One of these days Blair Waldorf would put the pieces together and realize that Mr. Right wasn't the golden boy in front of her, but the dark prince at his side. It was inevitable. Unless…

"I'm so glad you invited me to this B!" Georgina gushes as she stands and flounces over to the wet bar, plucking Chuck's glass from his hand as she saunters past. "Anyone _else_ need a refill?"


	2. Chapter 2

_"Don't you mess with a little girl's dream 'c__ause she's liable to grow up mean"_

-Poe-

It's a fun game, he thinks. The odds are good. Slightly less in his favor since Georgina joined them, but still acceptable. He takes the final sip of his champagne, then reaches down and spins the bottle.

He holds his breath as it turns in ever slower circles. He can see that it is going to be close. A matter of inches. Maybe this time…

His eyes flick momentarily to the dark haired waif at Nate's side. He feels the familiar stab of guilt, and then returns his gaze resolutely to the bottle.

She's _Nate's_, he sternly reminds himself. Has always been Nate's. He, Chuck Bass, has no business thinking of his best friend's girlfriend that way. Still…it would be nice. A safe opportunity to indulge. No one need ever know it meant more to him than a game. If only the bottle would stop…

But no. Lady luck is not delivering today it seems. The bottle is pointing squarely at Georgina.

He lets his breath out in a small sigh. At least it isn't Nate. That had been awkward, and the girls had laughed uproariously, which only made it worse. He doesn't like being laughed at.

He crawls across the circle towards her, and unlike the other girls, she comes forward to meet him. As she does, her dress dips forward, giving him a glimpse of budding breasts and a hint of red lace. He forces his eyes back to her face, and she's smiling. There's _something_ in her smile, and for a second he thinks that she knows that her dress had gaped open, that she'd done it deliberately. But he quickly dismisses the thought as ridiculous. Girls don't do things like that.

He reaches her now, and there's a moment of shyness. Licking his lips and taking a shaky breath, he leans in to kiss her. He keeps his eyes open, because he doesn't know how to do it without bumping heads, and that's how he knows she leans in too.

Her lips under his are soft, and he just begins to pull away when her hand is on the back of his head urging him to stay. He does, and for a second the world falls away. Then her mouth is suddenly insistent, her tongue slipping between his lips. Her fingers are tightening in his hair and she tastes like champagne and cloves and before he can even think to react, she breaks the kiss.

His breathing is ragged and he can feel heat rising in his cheeks. Nate is clapping him on the back, and Serena is giggling behind her manicured hands and Blair… Blair is turning away.

But Georgina is looking at him from across the circle now. Her eyes are alight with mischief as she grins a wicked little grin at him, and he can't help but grin back. She lifts her champagne flute in a mock toast, downs the rest of the sparkling liquid, and winks. He laughs and feels a bit lightheaded, thinking it must be the kiss because he hasn't really had that much champagne.

Then, abruptly Blair is announcing she has to leave, and she's practically dragging a drunken stumbling Serena with her. Nate shoots him a confused and apologetic look, then dashes out of the suite after them. Chuck attempts to follow them, and stop them, and demand to they come back, but he's too slow. The hallway outside his suite is deserted and they are already gone.

"Guess the party's over," he announces to Georgina as he reenters and collapses onto the couch. He feels like his bones are dissolving as he sinks deeper into the plush leather cushions.

"I figured," Georgina whispers, joining him on the couch. "I just called my parents. They're on their way."

"Okay," he murmurs, suddenly tired.

He closes his eyes and feels her small hand upon his chest, her body snuggling against him. It's… different. Not bad. Just different. The only other person who has cuddled with him is Blair on those occasions when, abandoned by Nate and Serena, they fall asleep together on the couch watching classic films. It's always a bit awkward afterward with Blair, and so he's not certain about cuddling with Georgina.

But then again, he _is_ very comfortable. It'd be a shame to move, and her parents would be here soon, and it was kind of nice to cuddle with a girl who seemed to like him. At least she kissed him as if she liked him. Besides, she smells good, like some expensive perfume with hints of vanilla.

For the rest of his life, he will hate that smell, but for now, it's okay. More than okay. He breathes in the scent as his mind drifts off towards dreams of another girl with chestnut curls who smells more like flowers than food.


	3. Chapter 3

_There is a part I can't tell_  
_About the dark I know well_  
-Steven Sater-

It's been 27 days.

27 days since he's seen her.

Not that he's counting…

27 days in which she's haunted his thoughts and plagued his dreams.

27 days in which he hasn't _slept_, has felt _sick_, like there's something in his _stomach_…

But she's here now. In his suite. And where is he? Out on the fricking balcony. Like a coward.

He thinks of her face, and his pulse races. He's not ready.

Breathe, Bass, _breathe_.

He can do this.

She's just a _girl_, after all, and he's a Bass. And he's got it all mapped out. He's thought of what he wants to say. All the things he _needs_ to say. He's rehearsed it, and tonight's his chance.

So he's going to do it. Right now... Right this moment... Any moment now...

_Fuck_!

He angrily rakes his hand through his hair. Maybe after one more cigarette.

He pulls the crumpled pack out of his suit pocket. He's going to need Arthur to buy Serena some more smokes because he'll be damned if the pack isn't nearly empty. As the small pile of butts in the ashtray can attest, he's been out here a while. But he can't go inside. Not yet. But soon he will. Soon he won't have the cigarettes anymore as an _excuse_.

He puts one of the slim cylinders between his lips. Serena says they take the edge off. But as his hand tremors slightly as he tries to light the damn thing, he thinks that's crap. He's _plenty_ edgy. The only thing the smokes seem to be doing right now is make him queasy.

Or maybe that's still the feeling he got in his stomach when he opened the door of his suite to welcome in his friends, and saw _her_ there arm in arm with Serena.

Not that he should have been that surprised. They've been inseparable. Not that he's been keeping tabs on her or anything...

He just needed time to prepare. Nothing wrong with that. And so _perhaps_ he knew that she'd been a shadow at Serena's side, and a thorn in Blair's.

He always knew Blair was better at reading people.

Still, he's dumbstruck to see her here tonight. He'd invited over Nate, which automatically meant Blair would come too. Blair, of course, would bring along Serena. One invite, three friends. A simple, reliable system that had worked for years.

But the dynamics had apparently changed. The entourage had grown. Georgina Sparks now accompanied Serena everywhere. Three for one had become _four_. He hadn't anticipated that. He hadn't counted on her just showing up here.

He had made a plan. And this? This was not part of the plan!

She's forced his hand. He sees that now, understands the advantage that gives her. So it's now or never time. Speak now or forever hold your peace.

Behind him, the slider opens and he tenses.

Oh, God. He can't do this. He can't face her.

But, no. It's Blair.

"Are you coming?" she says, and he immediately can tell she's annoyed. "I'm sick of playing hostess at your house."

"It's a suite, Blair."

She rolls her eyes. "Just hurry up, alright!"

He sighs and snubs the cigarette out. "Happy now?"

Blair beams at him and pushes him inside. He's glad. He probably would have chickened out without her propelling him forward.

"About time Chuck!" Nate says as soon as he spots him.

"You didn't have to wait," he replies.

"Oh yes we did. Blair _insisted_." Serena chimes in.

"Well, I… Games are more fun with five, instead of four," Blair says softly as he looks to her. He notices the slight flush coloring her cheeks. But before he can even begin to think what that could possibly mean, someone else is at his side. And there _she_ is in all her glory.

His breath catches in his throat as she extends a flute of champagne towards him with a smile. It doesn't reach her eyes. Maybe it never had. He eyes the proffered glass warily.

"No thanks. I'm not drinking."

"We waited for you forever and you're not even drinking! It's a _drinking_ game Chuck!" Serena exclaims in exasperation.

"Yeah, _Chuck_," Georgina adds. He shivers at the way his name leaves her mouth. "You have to drink something. Those are the rules." Her voice is sweet, playful, mocking.

"Fine," he grinds out, "But I'm drinking something else."

With tense shoulders and her steely eyes burning into his back, he approaches the wet bar. Lots of choices here. Lots of… Damn it! All the bottles have already been opened, and there was no way to tell exactly who had opened them or when.

Then he sees it. The scotch. His father's scotch. It's a new bottle. The seal is still unbroken. In this, at least, he is safe.

"Hey, Nathaniel. Try this with me," he says as he opens the bottle and pours himself a highball.

"Nah, I'm good man." A lazy smile spreads over his friend's face. "Georgina already brought me some champagne."

Something cold claws at his stomach with those words. She _wouldn't_, he thinks. But seeing that cruel and predatory twist to Georgina's lips, he feels that she _might,_ just to fuck with him.

"Come on Nate! Champagne's for girls! Scotch is for men," he urges. To prove his point, he takes a gulp of the scotch and nearly gags as it scorches down his throat. Shit! How does his father drink this stuff?

From the couch, Serena giggles at his discomfort. "Some man you are!" she teases.

"Sorry, but I think I'll pass," Nate deadpans as he sips the champagne. Chuck can tell he's trying not to break into a grin.

He turns away, but not before he sees the amused expression on Blair's face.

Wonderful. They're laughing at him. He _loves_ that. And Nate's still drinking that champagne. Fuck! Shit! Piss! He slams his glass down upon the bar and stalks into the next room.

_Chill_, Bass. Don't panic. That is what she wants. You're playing right into her hands. The plan. Remember the plan!

He takes a few deep breaths to calm himself, and that's how he knows she's close. Her smell, that sickly sweet vanilla scent announces her proximity a second before her body presses against his back.

"Relax Chucky," Georgina whispers. It takes all he has not to run, not to flee in blind panic. Her breath is hot against the side of his face. "I've already met my _virgin_ quota. Thanks."

She laughs then. A low, dark, throaty sound. And it is _this _that finally breaks his reserve.

He bolts. But he doesn't get far. The room is suddenly too small. He can't escape. He can't breathe. He thinks he might faint. Then a hand is on his shoulder and his reaction is just instinctual. He whirls and pushes and it's only belatedly that he realizes the figure stumbling away from him isn't Georgina. It's Blair with her perfect curls and shocked expression and his scotch clutched in her hand. Blair that nearly falls backward from the force of his shove. Blair that is glaring at him like he's the scum of the earth.

Great. Just _great_.

"What is your _problem_, Bass?" Blair snaps, and then the anger drains from her eyes. There's worry there now. Concern. She's looking at his face. Sees the cold sweat upon his skin. Hears his ragged gasping breaths.

"Are you okay? You don't look well."

And he wants to tell her.

But he can't. He knows he can't. He couldn't bare it. The pity. _Her_ pity. She can't ever know.

"I'm fine. It's nothing," he stammers, and even to him the lie sounds pathetic. He sees his scotch still held in her hands. He grabs it greedily. The liquid sloshes over the rim. Then he's gulping it down, concentrating on the feeling of acid in his gut. The pain helps. He takes another swig as she stands there dazed, peering up at him as if he's lost his mind.

She reaches out hesitantly. Her small hand is upon his arm, and he cringes away. Her touch is too soft, too gentle. Her eyes too probing.

"Chuck? Is everything –"

"Are we going to play this _fucking_ game or not?" he demands, cutting her off. It comes out harsher than he means it to. Now there's hurt in the depths of her chocolate eyes. He can't stand seeing it, hates that he put it there, but he can't deal with it. Not now. Abruptly, he strides back to the other room and leaves her standing there in bewilderment.

Nearby, watching them, Georgina smirks.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: This is me with a little reminder that this fanfic is **DARK**. Note the use of ALL CAPS, the **bolded text**, and the underlining. Just so we are all clear on where this is heading. Okay with that? Good. Now down the rabbit hole we go.

_I've been a bad, bad girl_

_I've been careless with a delicate man_

_And it's a sad, sad world_

_When a girl will break a boy_

_Just because she can_

-Fiona Apple-

27 days earlier…

She knows exactly when he falls asleep. It's when that one offending arm finally goes limp and falls away from her side. When she's finally able to squirm away from his supine form on the couch. God, they'd been cuddling. Georgina does _not_ cuddle.

Cuddling is an affront to her sensibilities. It is part of that great lie called love. That delusion people tell themselves so they don't feel guilty for wanting to get laid. That cold comfort they cling to rather than face the stark reality that they've sold their freedom for a person they will ultimately come to despise.

Georgina loathes _love_. Like Santa Clause and Cinderella, she knows love is a fairy tale for children. The greatest travesty of the human race is the perpetuation of that piece of make-believe bullshit for so long that not even adults realize anymore what a fabrication it is. The phrase wasn't _fools_ in love for nothing.

Love is _merde_. It belongs with the other falsehoods of existence, like "life after death" and "happily ever after" and "everything happens for a reason." It's all just contemptible lonely people trying to deny the chaos instead of embracing it. Georgina knows better than to believe in that shit.

And little Chuck Bass? Well, he'll soon know better too.

She watches him asleep on the couch. His face is serene, angelic. Eleven year old innocence personified. He looks like some dark haired cherubim caught napping, the subject of an Italian painting. She takes a moment to sear the image of into her brain. Things are always appreciated more once they are gone.

Georgina leans down and grips the front of his shirt. Dolce, she thinks. For a moment, she luxuriates in the silky texture beneath her slender fingers. It really is a nice shirt. That's too bad really. Such a waste.

With a harsh pull, she jerks it from his chest. It rips, shredding like tissue paper in her hands, the expensive buttons flying. A swath of his chest is exposed. Soft and pale and utterly smooth. He really is young. Oh well, Georgina muses. Everyone's got to grow up sometime.

"Wakey, wakey," she teases as she meets his unfocused eyes.

Oh, yes. He's conscious now. She sees him struggling to throw off the fogginess of dreams. To understand what is going on. But the haze isn't lifting. Something is holding him under. Something stronger than the last vestiges of sleep or champagne is enveloping his brain. Imagine that.

"Georgina, what – " he manages to mumble before she shushes him with her fingertips against his lips. The slur in his voice is distinctive. She hears it. He hears it too. She sees that in his dark gaze. The slowly dawning comprehension. She waits for it to sink in, for that last piece to click into place. She doesn't want to miss that moment of recognition…

His eyes widen slightly, and there it is. The first thread of fear.

He tries to sit up. It takes her almost nothing to push him back down. He's too weak, his body too sluggish.

"Relax, _Chuck_." She sneers his name, makes it a dirty word. "We're going to play a little game."

"What are you doing?" he slurs as he watches her reach for his belt. His eyes fly to her face, and the second he meets her glacial gaze, he _knows_.

He cries something, his voice high pitched and afraid. In his terror, the words slur together until they're unintelligible. The meaning is clear, however, as he tries to push her hands away.

She bats away the feeble attempts as she grins down at him. It isn't friendly at all.

"You know what your problem is Chucky?" Georgina jeers as reaches into his trousers. "You're too perfect. You don't know how to have fun. But that's okay. I'll show you. I know all about fun."

He's looking at her in horror. His eyes are wide and glassy with unshed tears, even as he grows hard in her hand.

Her lips twist up in a mockery of a smile. "Well, look at you Chucky. You've got some goods after all."

"Please," he begs as she crawls over him. He begins shaking his head back and forth. A wail is building in the back of his throat. It's pathetic really. She lowers herself and the wail emerges. It quickly becomes a gasp.

Georgina starts to move, then notices he's squeezing his eyes shut. He's whispering, "No, no, no" over and over in a constant litany. This won't do. It won't do at all.

"Chuck? Look at me," she breathes, her voice seductive as smoke in his ear. When he doesn't respond, she digs her fingernails into his chest drawing blood. He whimpers, a small despairing sound, but his eyes remain resolutely closed.

With a smirk, she rolls her hips and has the satisfaction of hearing him make a sound that is definitely _not_ a whimper. Boys, she thinks scornfully, they're all the same. He can try to resist all he wants. But in _this_ she is the master, he is the apprentice, and some lessons cannot be ignored.

And this is a lesson he will remember forever.

Still, he fights valiantly. She'll give him that. But eventually, it happens. She senses the change in him, the tension in his body. The way his breaths begin to hitch in his throat.

He's close.

"Fight it, Chuck. You hate it. You know you do. It doesn't feel good. Fight it," Georgina taunts him.

His face distorts becoming a grimace of pain and pleasure, happiness and horror.

Any second now.

"Look at me, damn it!" she demands with a violent twist of her hand against his tender flesh. He hisses through his teeth and obeys. His eyes fly open and meet hers just as a cry of anguished ecstasy rips from his throat as his body betrays him.

What she sees reflected there is priceless.

And he's crying. Literally keening beneath her. So precious.

She leans forward to kiss him, and he turns his face away in shame and revulsion.

"What's wrong, Chuck?" she whispers, her voice a mocking caress against his ear. "Not how you envisioned it?"

She trails her hand up his jaw, and he cringes away from her touch, trying to disappear into the couch.

"Didn't you _enjoy_ it? Wasn't it _fun_? I bet _Blair_ would think it was fun," she says as her fingers tighten in his hair. He looks at her then, meets her piercing blue gaze.

"Oh, yes. I know all about your little crush. Did you think I didn't? That I hadn't seen you looking at her?" she scoffs.

" You could have had her Chuck. Nate's boring and _safe_, but you? Everything she wants if she'd only turn and see you standing there. But now? The little prince isn't so charming anymore. He's dirty. Soiled. She'd never look at you again if she knew. And you know what's better than that Chucky dear? You never forget your first. Every time you touch her, touch anyone, you'll think of me, of _this_."

She grabs his face then and kisses him. Harsh bruising kisses as her fingernails dig into his scalp. Then she thrusts him away and stands up.

She watches his glazed eyes stare at the wetness, _his_ wetness, glistening upon her upper thighs. Then, with a strangled cry, he turns his head and retches.

And as the liquid pools at the toes of her Prada pumps and great wracking sobs shake his pitiful form, Georgina feels something grow within her greater and more exhilarating than any orgasm she's ever known.

_Triumph_.

And it bursts out of her in a laugh of pure unadulterated joy. A deep laugh that sounds almost foreign coming from her mouth, low and dark and throaty.

She's broken Chuck Bass.


	5. Chapter 5

_This was our brother_

_This was our son_

_This shepherd young and mild_

_This unassuming one_

_We all gasp, this can't happen here_

_We're all much too civilized_

_Where can these monsters hide?_

-Melissa Etheridge-

He knows she's watching. He doesn't need to actually _see_ her to know she's enjoying his discomfort.

_Bitch_.

His skin is clammy. As he clutches the glass of scotch, his knuckles are white. He's tense. A slight tremor begins in his leg. He ignores it, as he ignores her.

Of course, that's difficult. Impossible really. But he's trying. He wills himself to take steady breaths. She is not going to affect him a second time. Not tonight. Not ever.

She is not there. She is not there. She is not there.

The tremor in his leg grows, becomes an earthquake. He presses his foot into the floor, hiding the telltale sign of weakness. He does not want to give her the satisfaction of seeing him lose his composure again.

Only a little longer, Chuck reminds himself. Just until the end of this infernal game. Then she'll be gone. Her scent won't hover in his suite like a poison. Her laugh won't grate inside his brain. The ice blue gaze he refuses to meet won't scald his skin.

A private word to Serena afterwards, and he'll never have to see her again. Not unless he chooses to. When _he_ has the advantage. Once he's built up an arsenal to defend against her. Once he knows his chest won't constrict at the mere sound of her voice.

"I can't think of anything. This is stupid," Georgina complains, twirling her champagne flute between her elegant fingers. The nails are red, like they've been dipped in blood. How appropriate.

"Come on, G! There has to be something you haven't done," Serena pleads. Her voice is high and light, way past tipsy already.

"You could always leave," Chuck suggests.

The words are out of his mouth before he realizes he's said them. So much for pretending she wasn't there. He immediately berates himself. Everything he _says_, everything he _does_ is potential ammunition for her to use against him. Say nothing. Do nothing. Give her nothing.

But he's given her something all right. He can tell by that predatory show of teeth the others will unknowingly call a smile. This is not good, he thinks. This is not good at _all_.

"Oh, I wouldn't want to go home now. Not when things are starting to get _fun_. Aren't you having fun, _Chucky_?" She practically purrs the words at him.

His stomach clenches, but he manages to keep his face neutral. Serena looks at him expectantly, and the corners of his mouth turn up in a semblance of pleasantry.

"Okay, I've got one," Georgina announces. He braces himself. "Never have I ever had a pet."

He isn't sure what he expected her to say, but that was not it. Guardedly, he sips his scotch. Nate, Blair, and Serena follow suit, each of them taking a small sip of their drinks. They've all had pets, unlike Georgina.

Good thing too, he thinks wryly. She'd probably kill a pet. For _fun_.

Sick twisted bitch.

"My turn," Serena giggles. She glances mischievously from Nate to Chuck. "Never have I ever mooned anyone from a limo!"

Nate meets his gaze and breaks into a conspiratorial grin. Then Nate turns and hits Serena with a throw pillow.

"You weren't supposed to tell!" Nathaniel cries, mock-angry. Serena squeals as he continues pelting her with the pillow.

Blair sulks, watching their antics.

"Don't pout, princess. We'll invite you next time. Give you front row seats," Chuck teases her.

"Ew! You're disgusting!" she says. Then she, too, grabs a pillow from the couch.

She swings it and the blow catches him across the chest. It upsets the drink in his hand, the scotch splashing into his lap. It looks like he wet himself.

"My pants!" Chuck shouts angrily.

Blair points and giggles. Behind her, Serena and Nate are doubled up laughing. Chuck glowers at them, but in the face of their obvious amusement, he feels his outrage fading. Slowly a grin spreads over his face. Then he too is laughing.

And for a second, it is like that night 27 days ago never happened. The vice around his heart eases and the old camaraderie is back. It's just the four of them, laughing together, like always.

Then Georgina speaks, breaking them from their reverie.

"Are you going to take your turn or not, Chuck?" she sneers.

Unconsciously, his shoulders stiffen as the awareness of her presence returns in a rush.

"Never have I ever shoplifted," he answers automatically as his pulse quickens and his breathing shallows.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Georgina drink. That isn't surprising. Of course _Georgina_ shoplifts. Rules don't exactly mean much to her, he reflects bitterly as his stomach sours. Neither does the word "no."

Hesitantly, as if nobody will see her do it if she does it slowly, Blair drinks too.

The reaction is instantaneous.

"WHAT?" Serena exclaims. Nate's mouth is open so far, his jaw is nearly on the floor. Chuck knows it is a mirror of his own shocked expression. Blair wilts a little under their combined gaze.

"It was an accident! I was looking at some gloves at Neiman Marcus. Then my mother was demanding we go, and I walked out still holding them. When I realized, I went back to pay for them."

"That doesn't count," Chuck scowls.

"Well, _sorry_. It's not like I can spit the champagne back out. I already swallowed it, _Bass_" Blair retorts.

"Whatever _Waldorf_," he says.

She looks so cute when she's angry. He can't help smirking at the way she purses her lips. After a moment, she smirks back.

"Your turn," he prompts.

"Never have I ever…" Blair says as she looks at him, a blush rising in her cheeks. "Never have I ever had _sex_." She whispers out the final word, as if the word itself were the act.

For a second, no one moves. Then Georgina reaches for her glass.

Chuck remains still. He dares a glance in her direction and meets her steely gaze. Immediately, he realizes this is a mistake. Her lips twist in a wicked smile as she raises her glass in mock salute.

"Drink up, Chuck!" she announces.

Suddenly everyone is looking at him.

"What are you talking about?" Blair implores, confusion evident on her face as she glances from Georgina to Chuck. He shifts uncomfortably under her inquisitive stare.

Turning his head away, Chuck encounters Nate's astonished expression. He does not like what he sees on his friend's face. Nate is looking at him as if he was a _god_, equal parts envy and awe and fear.

Then Serena bursts into drunken, hysterical giggles. She tries to smother them with her hands before burying her face against Nate's shoulder. Nate pulls her quaking form against his chest and continues peering over her bouncing curls at Chuck.

And for the first time, Blair does not even notice the intimacy between her best friend and her boyfriend. She is too preoccupied. Something else has her full attention.

For once, she is entirely focused on _him_.


	6. Chapter 6

_Don't underestimate me boy_  
_I'll make you sorry you were born_  
-Madison Avenue-

It's amusing. So very enjoyable. Her obvious confusion. His evident discomfort. So deliciously entertaining.

And Serena, stupid little clueless Serena, laughing like a banshee. Like this is all a big joke. And it is really. A big _terrible_ joke at Blair Waldorf's expense. So go on laughing, S. Laugh _at_ her.

Georgina certainly is. She's not showing it, of course. But she is laughing just the same.

"What did she mean?" Blair says. She's looking at him with those doe eyes. "You're not a vir –" She breaks off, unable to complete the thought. And Chuck just stands there helpless, stricken dumb, too naive to realize that his silence is an answer all on its own.

Silly boy.

"Who?" Blair demands. Her mouth is set in a determined line, her eyes intense. "Who?" she repeats. Her voice is softer, so quiet that one almost has to strain to hear it, to catch the faint tremor in the word.

Georgina knows her cue when she hears it.

She steps up behind Chuck, smiles shyly, meets Blair's gaze. That's all it takes.

The brunette's eyes are suddenly somehow empty. Something small and beautiful and precious within the depths of those chocolate orbs, some hidden desire unknown even to her is gone.

Chuck sees the hurt in her expression. Georgina can tell by the way his body straightens. He's rallying, preparing to speak. He gulps in a noisy breath. Finally finds his voice, starts to say something, anything. But it is too late.

Blair doesn't hear him, doesn't _want_ to hear him. Her vacant eyes are blinking too rapidly. Mechanically, her hand covers her mouth. Then she's hastily making her way to the bathroom while Chuck stands there paralyzed, gaping after her like an idiot.

From the circle of Nate's arms, Serena turns to watch her friend disappear. The laughter dies on her glossy lips.

"Is B okay?" she says drunkenly.

Georgina feels a twinge of annoyance. The fair haired girl really has no tolerance for alcohol. It's terribly embarrassing.

"Don't worry S. Everything's fine," Georgina assures the blonde before she can begin to pull away from Nate. "I've got it. Stay right where you are."

Right in Nate's embrace, she thinks with a smirk as Serena leans back against the golden boy's chest. He snuggles into her, content to have her there, unconcerned that his _girlfriend_ has just fled the room.

Such a catch. Definitely a keeper.

Georgina smiles down at the two of them and goes to follow Blair. She deliberately brushes against Chuck as she passes him. He stiffens, flinching away from her. In the doorway, she glances back at him. His expression is pained. Then he meets her gaze. His face closes down, becomes guarded, giving away nothing. Except for that haunted expression he can't yet conceal in his eyes.

He's learning.

She laughs, watches him recoil slightly from the sound, and turns towards the bathroom. She knows what she'll find before she gets there. The door is firmly shut. Pressing her ear against it, she faintly hears the tap running into the sink. But over that, punctuating the steady rhythm of falling water, another sound.

Gagging.

Georgina is a connoisseur of the tragic. And this, the expelling of half-formed hopes into a porcelain bowl, is exquisite. Almost transcendent. It has an almost musical quality.

Then a hand is grabbing her arm, roughly shoving her away from the door.

"What are you doing?" Chuck hisses.

Oh goody.

She meets his indignant eyes, grins at him. His jaw tightens but he refuses to back down. Arching one slim brow, she stalks towards him with an exaggerated sway of her hips. The movement is sinuous, slinky, almost feline. She watches as his resolve weakens, wavers, dies.

He backpedals until he is bumps into the wall. His breaths are strained, wheezing. He sounds like an asthmatic in need of an inhaler. Pitiful.

She reaches out to trace the buttons up his shirt. He shrinks away from the contact. Her hand thrusts forward, fisting in the smooth fabric.

"Don't _ever_ touch me like that again. You understand?" Georgina warns. Her voice is low, dangerous. When he doesn't respond, she leans into him, flattens against him.

A second later, Blair emerges from the bathroom. Pristine. Polished. Like she hasn't just had her fingers down her throat. Her overly bright eyes the only indication that perhaps everything is not quite copasetic.

She's _good_, Georgina muses.

Then the Upper East Side princess spots them together, and Georgina takes it all back. The poor girl isn't that good.

"Sorry. Excuse me," she mumbles as she tries to escape the sight of them pressed like lovers against the wall.

Chuck's expression, watching Blair go, is a mirror of dismay. Pleased, Georgina steps back and watches him start after her. This should be _fun_.

She hasn't gotten far when he catches up to her. She turns to him. Her face once again a mask of composed serenity.

"Did you want something, Chuck?" she says.

"I just…" he fumbles for words. So cute. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Blair… You ran to the bathroom. I thought maybe – "

"Oh, _that_. I just had too much champagne," she says. It's a lie. Her eyes are doing that thing where they don't match her mouth. An obvious tell. Blair Waldorf should never play poker.

"Please, Blair," Chuck says knowingly.

"I'm fine, Bass. Really," she insists.

"You sure?" he says, a touch of anger darkening his voice. He reaches towards her. Extends one finger to touch her face. Holds it up like a brand in front of her protesting gaze. And there caught on the tip of his finger, shimmering like a diamond in the light, is a solitary tear.

Blair looks at it uncomprehendingly. Her brows knit in a show of puzzlement, like the existence of the tear baffles her.

"I must have had something in my eye," she says dismissively, avoiding his gaze. She takes a step forward. Almost immediately Chuck moves in front of her, blocking the path.

"You are not _fine_," he grinds out.

She tries to side step him, but he prevents her by bracing one palm against each wall. She glares at him, and he glares back. For a long moment, it's a stalemate, then he softens, drops his arms.

"Blair, talk to me," he begs.

"There's nothing to talk about Chuck," she denies.

Once again, she attempts to move past him. This time he doesn't try to stop her. He watches her retreating back for a second.

"Blair, about Georgina – " he calls out after her.

She whirls suddenly. That facade of poised perfection finally slips.

"I don't _ever_ want to hear about you and Georgina!" she practically spits, cold fury burning in her eyes, her face taut and pale. Chuck reels back as if slapped. Then she's gone, muffled footsteps trailing in her wake as she flees down the hallway.

For a second Georgina thinks he might go after her, but no. She watches him collapse in upon himself, sliding down the wall.

"Sad little Chucky," Georgina teases, looking down at him as he hugs his knees to his chest.

He raises his head to look at her. Tears are brimming in his eyes. "I hate you," he says simply without preamble.

"Now, now Chucky. You might hurt my feelings."

"You don't have feelings," he sneers.

"Oh but I do," she whispers with mockery. "It's just that I don't care. Unlike you. But don't worry, Chucky dear. Soon you won't care either. Soon you'll be just like me."

His face screws up in disgust. "I'll never be like you," he declares. But there's a moment's hesitancy before he speaks, a second in which his claim loses all conviction, and his words ring hollow. He's afraid of becoming her.

She smiles at that. A slow, lazy, patronizing smile. "Whatever lies comfort you."

"Please go," he says defeated. "Just leave."

"Anything you say Chucky," she says sweetly, then adds, almost as an afterthought, "I'll see you later."

He blinks, and the tears so long threatening to spill forth finally do. They roll down his angelic face, an unspoiled visage of grief and despair. So ethereal in its perfection, the sight catches her breath. Beautiful.

She leaves him there, crumbled upon the floor, and returns to the main room. Unsurprisingly, Blair and Nate are gone. Only Serena remains, lying in a happily intoxicated lump on the couch.

"Let's go S," Georgina tells her. "I think Chuck wants to be alone."

On the ride home, she lets Serena babble about inconsequential bullshit and even feigns that she is interested. She pays the cabbie extra to just drive them in circles so that the blonde can sober up a little. She needs her to be able to remember.

She waits until they are inside, after she's checked that Lily has not miraculously decided to be a mother today of all days, after she's gotten a few cups of coffee and some bread into her giggling protégé. She has to be sure.

Finally, she's certain.

"Serena?" she whispers.

The blonde looks up at her. Georgina clutches her hand.

Showtime.

"I – " she manages to choke out. She takes a shaky breath. Then her face crumples. Scalding tears escape her eyes. A harsh cry erupts from her throat. Serena's arms are wrapping around her as her shoulders shake with sobs.

Sobbing is so close to laughing really.

"Oh my God! What's wrong?" Serena asks in confusion. Georgina smirks into the golden hair obscuring her face.

She pulls away. Her lashes are spiked with tears. Mascara runs in dirty tracks down her cheeks. Her lips quiver. She looks into Serena's earnest face. At the concern etched there. So trusting.

"I have to tell you something," she gasps, "…about Chuck."


	7. Chapter 7

_There was a boy who had the faith to move a mountain_

_And like a child he would believe without a reason_

_Without a trace he disappeared into the void_

_And I've been searching for that missing person_

-Michael W. Smith-

It's the incessant ringing that wakes him. Drags him from the depths of a murky dream where Blair looks at him with betrayed eyes and Georgina's laugh echoes around them. That shrill sound pierces his ears until his hand finally closes upon the cell phone lost amidst the tangle of sheets and downy comforters. He peers blearily at the caller ID screen.

-SERENA-

He pushes the ignore button, sending it straight to voicemail. Pulling the blankets over his head, he nestles back into the warmth of the bedding. He's not ready to face the day quite yet.

Seconds later, his phone chimes once more. He fumbles for it, and succeeds in knocking it off the edge of the mattress. The strident noise continues to assault him as he wearily rolls over and reaches for the cell upon the plush carpet. With annoyance, he sees that it is Serena calling back. He flicks ignore again, then silences the ringer for good measure. Nothing can be that important.

Laying his head down upon the pillows, he grimaces. The beginnings of a serious headache are forming behind his eyes. Even worse, he finds himself suddenly wide awake. He is seriously going to kill Serena.

He considers getting up, but with a glance at the clock on his nightstand, decides against it. On a Saturday morning, 9:15 was an ungodly hour to be up at. Nothing is rousing Chuck Bass from his bed until at least 10:00.

Except perhaps the abrupt pounding on his door.

For a moment he thinks his father might have returned early from Hong Kong. But no. Bart wouldn't bother knocking; he'd stroll right in.

Who the _fuck_ would be here so early?

Groggily, he sits up and immediately regrets it. The world reels as his vision blurs.

No more scotch, he tells his churning stomach. No more scotch ever, _ever_ again.

Groaning, Chuck forces himself to stand and makes his way slowly towards the entrance of his suite, relying heavily upon the wall to keep him upright. Passing the light switch, he flicks it on and winces as the sudden brightness invades the room. He feels it like an ice pick to the cornea.

This had better be good.

He opens the door with a quick jerk, and then blinks in confusion.

"Nathaniel?"

"You almost ready?" Nate asks. His voice is entirely too cheerful.

"What?" Chuck says in barely restrained irritation. His head is throbbing. Literally pulsating in agony with each beat of his heart.

"You forgot," Nate says simply, his face falling in disappointment.

Noticing the shorts and jersey the golden boy is wearing, Chuck remembers.

Nate, his spry athletic best friend, had wanted to play some vigorous sport. And in a moment of weakness, because Nathaniel was just so damn agreeable that it was hard to refuse him anything, Chuck had promised. They had made plans, and now here Nate was to collect.

Shit.

"Give me a moment," Chuck sighs miserably. Instantly, Nate is beaming at him.

At least he's happy, Chuck thinks as he pads back into his suite. If he didn't love Nathaniel like a brother, there is no way in hell he would be willing to do this. He much prefers more leisurely pursuits. Ones that do not require him to _sweat_. But, alas, there's no way out of it now. Not with his best friend already here and that kicked puppy expression he gets whenever he doesn't get his way. It's impossible to say no to that.

So here he is, preparing to _play_ basketball when he would much rather _watch_.

Opening his closet, he surveys the clothing neatly arranged on wooden hangers. What to wear? He shuffles through the wardrobe, quickly deeming the selections from Gucci and Prada unacceptable. Far too nice. Finally, he settles upon an Upper East Side approximation of athletic wear: the velour track suit.

A few minutes and a couple aspirin later, he's ready to go. All that remains is to put on his sneakers. It's when he's bent over tying them that Nate finally asks the question that Chuck has been dreading.

"So," his friend says into the silence, "how was it?"

"How was what?" Chuck replies, stalling for time.

"You know! You had _sex_!" Nate exclaims in exasperation. "What was it like?"

"It was…" Chuck begins. Then his voice trails away. He licks his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. He feels a wave of nausea that has nothing to do with being hung-over.

Unconsciously, he touches his chest, rubs the spot where her nails had dug painfully in. The small crescent- shaped cuts have long since healed, faded into thin pinkish scars, but he still feels them as if they were blazing brands upon his skin indelibly marking him as hers.

Her voice ghosts through his mind, "_Every time_ _you touch her, touch anyone…_" and he shivers.

He remembers her eyes boring into him in that final moment of shock and shame as her body rode him and he couldn't fight it any longer. His chest tightens as once again he imagines her lips upon his, the smell of her all pervasive vanilla perfume, the triumphant sound of her laughter.

It had been a mercy when he finally succumbed to the ever encroaching numbness that obliterated his consciousness and allowed him the brief respite of feeling nothing, knowing nothing. In that drug induced sleep, he'd been able to escape.

He'd woken to find her gone, and the horror made manifest. The marks on his chest, the cloying scent of her on his skin, the rent remnants of his shirt all baring evidence that the nightmare was real.

Shaking the memory away, Chuck looks up and meets Nate's inquisitive gaze.

"It was… _fun_," he lies.


	8. Chapter 8

_Everything that you fear is calling you and drawing near_

_I searched my world, but I can't find you_

_You're standing there, but I can't touch you_

_Try to talk but the words are just not there_

_I can feel a sense of danger_

_You stare at me like I'm a stranger_

_Paralyzed and you don't seem to care_

_The demons in my dreams_

-Brian McFadden-

Basketball was definitely a mistake. The running, the jumping, the constant stop and start only exacerbates his hangover. Now his headache is raging, his body is aching, he thinks he might vomit, and he is _sweaty_.

Chuck is not pleased.

But at least he is back in his suite now. His duty to Nathaniel is done. Finally, he can lie down and just suffer until this wretchedness goes away. Sounds like paradise.

He considers freshening up, but the lure of the bed is too great in his condition. He collapses onto it. The joys of clean skin can wait until he feels better.

Rolling onto his side, he notices something hard under him. He pulls it out and realizes it is his phone. He'd forgotten it when he'd left with Nate. Checking to see if anyone had called, he is surprised to see that he has eleven missed calls from Serena.

Whatever could she want that badly?

He presses the speed dial for her cell. She answers almost immediately.

"Hey Ser – "

"Are you home?" she asks abruptly, cutting him off. Something in her tone is not right.

"Yeah… Why?" he asks.

"I'll be right over," she replies, and before he can say anything else, the line goes dead.

Sighing in frustration, he climbs back off of the mattress. It looks like he won't be resting quite yet after all. Might as well get that shower in now, he thinks. But he doesn't know where she is coming from. She could be close and he wouldn't be finished before she arrived. Knowing his luck today, that is probably the case.

Sure enough, as if on cue, there is suddenly a knock on his door.

Damn it.

Expecting Serena, he is taken aback when he sees a man holding an enormous bouquet of purple flowers, a veritable riot of lilac, violet, and amethyst.

"Delivery for –" the man begins.

"Wrong suite," Chuck says automatically. Before he can shut the door, however, the man speaks again.

"Are you Charles Bass?" he says, reading off a clipboard.

"Yes."

"Then these are yours," the guy states. "Sign here please."

In perplexity, Chuck scrawls his name and takes the bouquet inside.

Who would send him flowers?

Settling down the vase, he checks for a card. Hidden amongst the blooms and baby's breath, he sees it.

The envelope is creamy vellum paper, heavy for something so small. Curious, he opens it, reads the message.

_Thinking of you_

The script is large, sharp angles and soft curves. It's unsigned.

But something else rests in the bottom of the envelope like a slight weight. He upends it, and tumbling into his outstretched palm is a lone button. A wisp of thread still hangs from it. Lavender, like the flowers. Like the shirt he'd worn that awful night…

Hissing through his teeth, he drops the card, flings the button from him as if it was cursed. He looks at the artfully arranged blossoms and no longer detects their fragrance. Instead, all he can smell is a vile vanilla stench. With a cry, he sweeps the offending buds into the trash. The vase shatters on impact.

That bitch. That crazy, psychotic bitch!

Involuntarily his lungs constrict and his eyes burn. Blinking, he feels hot tears roll down his cheeks. He wipes them away angrily. No more crying, he scolds himself. No more tears shed because of that _whore _Georgina.

He considers for a moment. Then his lips curl into a small self-satisfied smirk.

_Whore_gina. So fitting.

He's in the bathroom, splashing water on his face, willing his racing pulse to slow and his labored breathing to ease, when his phone rings. It's a number he doesn't recognize.

"Hello?" he says answering.

"Hi, Chucky," Georgina seductively whispers over the line.

"How did you get this number?" he demands. The vice is back around his chest. Perspiration breaks out along his brow.

"Did you like my little surprise?" she asks, blatantly ignoring his question.

He should hang up. He knows that. But with an almost sick fascination, he stays on the line. Looking at his reflection in the mirror, his eyes are huge, horrified.

"They're in the garbage, where you belong," he tells her.

"That's unfortunate. They were really quite lovely, unspoiled, like you used to be. And now you've ruined them. There's a tragic irony in that, the fallen boy destroying that which is pure. Life coming full circle, don't you think?" He shudders at the implications of her words.

"Why don't you go find someone else to torture?" he says. It's almost a prayer.

She laughs delightedly, and even through the phone the sound causes him to flinch. "Because I choose you, Chucky. You amuse me."

"Well find some other way to make yourself happy, bitch," he snaps.

"I'll ignore that term of affection, _dear_." Her tone dips threateningly. "And I didn't say you made me happy. Happiness isn't for people like us."

"There _is_ no us," he grinds out through clenched teeth.

She sighs. He can practically see her rolling her eyes at him and shaking her brown hair with a toss of her malicious head. "Oh but there is. We're playing a game, you and I. Not the same game, of course. I'm playing chess, while you're playing Candyland. But maybe eventually you'll move up to the big boys table."

"This, what you're doing to me, is not a game you fucking –"

"Everything is a game!" she says, cutting him off. "Life is a competition. There are always winners and losers. Me? I'm a winner. And you? Well… I'm sure you have other qualities."

"Fuck you!"

"I already have, as I'm sure you recall. I know I do. The sounds you made, the look you gave me when you came. Gets me hot, just thinking about it." Her voice is warm and husky, disturbingly sensual. Bile rises in his throat. He's shaking, his whole body trembling.

"Don't ever call here again," he says. He hates the weakness in his voice, that slight tremor. He knows she'll hear it.

"Believe me Chucky. Next time we speak, it'll be you calling me."

"Don't count on it!" he sneers as he hangs up the phone.

Seconds later, he falls to his knees before the toilet and heaves into the bowl. Spent, he lies there on the floor gasping. He's still there when there is a knock at his door. At the gentle rapping, he tenses. He checks through the peep hole and relaxes when he sees Serena on the other side. He opens the door to invite her in.

BAM!

Quicker than a flash, her hand strikes, connecting sharply against his cheek.

"What the _fuck_!" he roars stunned. The left side of his face stings, the eye waters.

"How could you?" she snarls, her blue gaze livid.

He resists the impulse to hit her back. Boys do not hit girls. Not ever. Not even if they deserve it. Not even if they belt you across the face with no provocation.

"What was that for?" he shouts instead as his hands clench into fists.

"She was a virgin, Chuck. A virgin, you asshole!" Serena shrieks at him in cold fury, her finger stabbing accusingly into his chest. The venom in her voice mystifies him.

"Who are you talking about?" he cries in utter confusion.

"Oh, so you've done it more than once? You disgust me!" she sneers with a shake of her long golden tresses. The look on her face, that movement of her head seems so familiar. Almost an exact impersonation of…

"Georgina!" he says with dawning certainty. "What did she tell you?"

"Everything, you bastard. I'm her friend. She needed me after what you did to her!"

"What _I_ did to _her_?" he repeats in stunned disbelief.

"Don't act all innocent. You know you took advantage of her, pressured her when she was drunk."

"That isn't what happened at all," Chuck insists.

"Oh? Then what did happen, huh? Let's hear your version of events," Serena says with obvious disdain.

He tries to speak, but he can't seem to make his mouth work. The words won't come, they're just not there.

With a sound of derision, Serena rolls her eyes at his silence. "What's the matter? Need some help?" she says sarcastically. "How about _she_ started it? It wasn't _your_ fault at all? _She_ was all over _you_, right? She practically _raped_ you?"

Dimly, as if she is standing beside him, he imagines he can hear Georgina laughing.

"I can't believe you Chuck. I thought I knew you. I thought we were friends. Guess I just never noticed what kind of a monster you really are. You're lucky she made me swear not to tell, 'cause I would. I want to. I think Blair, Nate, everyone deserves to know what kind of sadistic fucker you are. But I promised because she doesn't want anyone to know. She's too embarrassed. She only gave in because you said you loved her, and she thought she loved you. Then you don't even talk to her afterwards. You avoid her. Treat her like she's nothing but a cheap slut. She's been sobbing at my house for hours. She regrets the day she first laid eyes on you, and she's going to suffer for it for the rest of her life. You both are."

"Excuse me?"

"She's pregnant, Chuck. You got her pregnant."


	9. Chapter 9

_Leaning over you here_

_Cold and catatonic_

_I catch a brief reflection_

_Of what you could and might have been_

_It's your right and your ability_

_To become my perfect enemy_

-A Perfect Circle-

When her cell rings, Georgina grins. She doesn't even need to remove the cold compress from her eyes to know it is him.

"Hello again Chucky" she purrs in satisfaction as she answers the phone.

"You're a liar" he says bluntly. His voice is flat, unemotional, detached.

"Yes, yes I am," she acquiesces. "But the question is was I lying about _everything_?"

He's silent on the other end of the line deliberating. She takes advantage of the momentary lull to sit up on the bed, the gel pack falling into her lap. She gingerly touches her face and hopes that enough time has passed for the cooling mask to have worked its magic. Crying for Serena's benefit had definitely taken its toll, and there is no way she is going to be seen in public with _puffy_ eyes.

"It can't be true," Chuck says finally. "You're too young." The uncertainty in his voice is evident even though he is attempting to sound confident.

So cute.

"I know you're a _kid_, but if a girl has her period, she can get pregnant. That's kind of the way it works."

Over the phone, she hears him grind his teeth. She can practically see how his jaw must be tensing. It delights her as she slides off the bed and pads to the bathroom. Looking into the mirror, she smiles in approval. Most of the swelling around her eyes has subsided. Nothing remains that some expertly applied foundation won't conceal. Excellent. She needs to look stunning tonight.

"I know that," he sneers at last. "But why should I believe you? If you are pregnant, and that's a big _if_, how do I even know it's mine?"

"You don't," she whispers. Then abruptly, she hangs up on him. She imagines the look of astonished fury on his face when he hears the dial tone. Turning to see her profile in the mirror, she smirks when her phone rings sharply once again.

"You bitch!" he yells as she answers.

"Now is that any way to talk to the woman carrying your child?" she laughs. The malice in his voice, that first stab at cruelty is just too adorable.

"You know what I think? This is just another one of your sick demented little games! So guess what? Fuck you! I'm done!"

"Don't with F with an F-er, Chucky dear," she threatens icily, all traces of amusement gone. "Try it, and I guarantee that you will become the pariah of the Upper East Side. I'll be forced to tell everyone what you did."

"What I did?!?" he snaps in unrestrained rage.

"Yes," she gloats. "All the sordid details."

"They'll never believe you."

"_Pobrecito_," she coos mockingly, "you still don't get who you are dealing with, do you?" Then, in a faultless imitation of weeping, she continues. "I'll let everyone know how you got me drunk, took advantage of me. How horrible it was. How I cried, begged for you to stop." With one last timorous sniffle, she drops the pretense of tears. "Everyone will believe it. Serena's already proven that."

"You fucking whore," he grinds out slowly. His breaths are harsh rasps in the phone.

"Language, Charles," Georgina tauntingly scolds. "It's not wise to upset me. It isn't good for the baby."

"What do you want from me?" His tone is dark, dangerous, barely controlled.

Wonderful.

With a playful lick of her lips, she announces, "Tonight. Butter."

"What?" he spits.

She presses her lips together in annoyance. Seriously, she's tempted to think the boy grew up in Brooklyn rather than the Upper East Side.

"Butter, the restaurant," she explains condescendingly. "Seven o'clock. Don't be late." With an irritated flick of her wrist, she snaps her phone closed before he can respond.

Of course, he calls back almost immediately. She ignores it. He'll be there. Of that, she is certain. Now she just needs to prepare. Everything must be perfect. She's spent too much time planning this scheme for it to be foiled now.

Drumming her hands upon her concave stomach, she examines the dresses she'd hung earlier in the bathroom. She fingers the black vintage Chanel fondly. She loves the way it dips low in the back and emphasizes her slender frame. However, it is just not right for this evening. No, the Stella McCartney slip dress is a much better choice. It captures the spirit of adolescence. She knows how demure it makes her appear, how sweet. She can stand it because the short length does showcase her coltish legs nicely. Unfortunately, that'll be her only concession to sexiness this night. But the color of the dress is perfect, a beautiful pale pink with minute yellow flowers. Knowing Chuck, he'll most likely wear something pink as well. They'll match then. They might as well, since the evening is sure to be documented.

Georgina has taken great pains not to be seen for the past month, not to be photographed. Religiously, she's checked the rumors online and there is no mention of her beyond a few blurbs theorizing on where she's been. Excellent. Tonight, her debut back into society will not go unnoticed, and there Chuck Bass will be at her side.

Sweeping her locks back from her face, she considers putting her hair up. She frowns and lets the brown tresses fall back around her shoulders. The effect is softer. Definitely down. Combined with the dress, she'll look exactly like what she is not, a young girl caught in the first rush of love.

Nauseating, but necessary.

Glancing at the time on her phone, she walks back into the bedroom and grabs her purse. There isn't much time left to get dressed, and she needs a pick me up. Pretending to be a whining invalid all afternoon has left her exhausted. She fishes around in the bottom and then pulls out a tiny plastic bag from its hiding place. Smiling at the baggie of instant energy, she tucks it into her bra in case Serena returns unexpectedly. She isn't ready to be exposed to this quite yet, and it wouldn't do for her to catch on early.

Back in the bathroom, with the door securely locked, Georgina shakes a small amount of the white power upon the marble countertop. As she scrapes it into a precise line, she runs over tonight's agenda in her mind.

Chuck's age really is the biggest obstacle. She will need to counteract that impediment somehow. Stress his good qualities, emphasize his connections. Make him seem like someone they _need_ to know. That shouldn't take too much effort, she thinks with a grin. He _is_ the sole heir of Bass Industries, after all.

With practiced ease, she bends over the counter and snorts. Instantly, she feels that rush of adrenaline.

Better than coffee.

Picking up her phone, she dials rapidly, waits impatiently while it rings. She grows edgy until someone finally picks up. She chuckles seductively when she hears a familiar masculine voice.

"Georgina?"

"Hey," she says in a husky whisper, "what are you doing tonight? There's someone I want you to meet."


	10. Chapter 10

_You'll never make me stay_

_So take your weight off of me_

_I know your every move_

_So won't you just let me be?_

_I've been here times before_

_But I was too blind to see_

_That you seduce every man_

_This time you won't seduce me_

-Michael Jackson-

It's unbelievable.

Butter is packed. The dinner rush. He had vainly hoped he wouldn't be able to get in. But apparently she'd made reservations. Under his name, of course. The bitch thought of everything.

Surrounded by the denizens of the Upper East Side, he shifts uncomfortably on the plush chair. The menu sits untouched on the table in front of him along with his water. The ice has almost completely melted. Moisture beads upon the surface of the glass and runs down the side to be absorbed by the pristine white linen tablecloth.

Around him, he hears the ebb and flow of conversation. Snatches of gossip. Hushed words. Strangers talking, toasting, celebrating.

It sounds like laughter.

Chuck is here, at one of the hippest restaurants in New York, on a crowded Saturday night, all alone.

She's late.

He glances at his watch with a scowl. Twenty minutes. He's been sitting here all by himself for twenty fucking minutes! He digs the cell out of his trouser pocket. He should call her. Demand to know where she is, why she hasn't shown. Insist that she get here right now. Then he stops himself. What is he thinking? He doesn't want to _see_ Georgina! He's a bit relieved actually. Annoyed that she's apparently stood him up, but relieved just the same. Instead, he stands and flips open his phone to tell Arthur to bring the limo back around to pick him up. Before he can dial, however, a shiver runs down his spine.

He turns and there she is, just entering the restaurant. It only takes him a second to notice that something is off about her. Different. Then their eyes meet, drawn inexplicably together. Her expression changes. She looks… happy.

A tingle of foreboding uncoils in his belly. Only one thing pleases Georgina, and that is causing pain. The bigger the trauma, the more she gets off on it. And from her beatific smile, something is happening. Something serious. The bitch is positively glowing.

"Chucky!" she squeals loud enough to attract the attention of nearly half the restaurant. Unexpectedly she is bounding towards him. The force of her impact staggers him backward, his arms inadvertently wrapping around her in an attempt to steady them just as she clutches his shoulders and presses her lips to his.

Before he can recover, she breaks the kiss. "I missed you!" she beams at him. A moment later, she giggles, a cute girlish sound.

Who the hell is this?

"Didn't you miss me?" she coos. Wiping the smears of her transferred lipstick away, her fingers brush against his mouth. He feels a strong urge to bite one of them off.

"No. Why would I?" he says coldly.

She pouts playfully, "Then why are you still holding me?"

Abruptly, he drops his traitorous arms. Steps back from her as she grins at him like a lovesick fool.

"I don't know what game you're playing, but it needs to stop. Right now." He tries to make his voice stern and commanding, even though inside he is starting to panic.

"Oh lighten up, Chucky," she teases as she whisks past him and into a chair. A cloud of her vanilla perfume envelops him, thick and suffocating. Absently, he licks his lips and grimaces. He tastes the faintest trace of her on his tongue. His heartbeat is speeding up, hysteria pushing at the edges of his self-control.

Fight or flight?

After a few tense seconds, he cautiously sits opposite her. He grabs his water and gulps down the lukewarm fluid in an attempt to wash the taste of her from his mouth. It still lingers, even after the glass is empty. He sets it back upon the table with an audible thump. All the while, she gazes at him adoringly. Chuck thinks he might be sick.

With a toss of her head, she laughs, a sound so much worse than giggling. It hits him like a blow to the solar plexus, constricting his lungs and knocking the air out of him.

"What's so damn funny?" he manages to whisper.

She waves his inquiry away, even as her shoulders shake with suppressed mirth. Then, as her eyes dance with amusement, it bursts out of her. "We match!" she announces with a delighted gesture at their complementary outfits.

With a glance between his own pink suit and her nearly identical pink dress, Chuck sighs. Indeed, the observation is true. They do match. Hell, it looks like they planned it!

A suspicion grows in his mind. Meeting her ice blue stare, it is confirmed.

"What a crazy coincidence," he says without bothering to disguise the sarcasm in his tone. "However did that happen?"

She smirks at him, wrinkling up her nose in a way that would be endearing on anyone else. Ignoring the glare he gives her, she retrieves her phone from her purse and sets it on the table next to her before picking up the menu. "Do you know what you want?" she says as she peruses the selections.

"I'm not eating. I've lost my appetite," Chuck grinds out. He eyes her cell. "Expecting a call, are you?"

She pays no attention to his question as she replies from behind her menu. "Well you should at least have a drink, Chucky dear. You're a bit pale. I recommend the martinis. They're excellent." She peeks out to meet his scowl. "I'd have one… if I could."

His stomach clenches at the not too subtle reminder of her supposed pregnancy. "I am not ordering a martini. We're in public, and underage," he spits.

"So?" She looks at him in exasperation for a moment before rolling her eyes in annoyance with a sound of disgust.

There she is, he thinks. _This_ is the Georgina he knows and wishes would die. About time she reared her evil head and dropped the sweet and innocent routine. He isn't buying it. He nearly tells her so, but she is already reverting back to the saccharine and sugar act. Watching the metamorphosis is disturbing. It occurs so quickly, the transition is nearly flawless. When their waiter arrives moments later, he is grateful. He needs more water to wet his suddenly dry mouth.

Of course, he should have anticipated that Georgina would order the most expensive items on the menu. She probably expected him to pay too.

"I will start with the sweetbreads. Then I'll have the seared tuna with the lemon risotto. Oh, and some of that delicious white chocolate soufflé for dessert," she purrs at their young waiter.

"Of course, Miss. And for you, Sir?"

"Water. Sparkling. Thanks," Chuck says through tight lips. He can't imagine eating around her. Just the sight of her makes him nauseous.

"Very good, Sir. I'll be right back with your beverage."

On the table next to her elbow, Georgina's cell beeps, indicating an incoming text. Chuck raises a quizzical brow when she makes no move to pick it up. "Aren't you going to check that?"

"No need. I already know what it is," she says as she offhandedly slides the phone back into her Prada bag. The move, her whole attitude is wrong. It is _too_ nonchalant, a practiced casualness. She looks up at him and smiles, cruel and predatory, just as the waiter arrives with his water.

That sense of panic? It's growing. He feels it like a caged beast poised to strike. The welling terror of the wild thing confined within his breast ready with teeth and claws.

Fight or flight?

It repeats in his head. A silent mantra. He takes a sip of the water. It's cool and refreshing gliding down his throat. He's appreciates the fleeting distraction. It helps him ignore the pacing animal in his chest, the one that makes his pulse race whenever he even thinks of her.

Beneath the table, her foot rubs against his leg. A slow calculated caress. He scoots his chair farther back. It's irrational, this feeling of claustrophobia gripping him. She can't do anything to him. She wouldn't. Not here. Not really. They are in public, and she while she would enjoy breaking him again, she wouldn't want the social embarrassment of being seen with him while it happened.

Bitch.

He's safe, he tells himself, or at least as safe as he can be around her. Her options are limited under the watchful eyes of so many. She works best in secrecy, when no one is looking. It is one of the few things he knows for certain about her.

Chuck tenses his jaw, forces himself to meet her penetrating stare. He concentrates on the loathing that surges up alongside the fear as he looks at her. Concentrating on the hatred of her, of himself, of his weakness, he pushes the feelings of alarm away. Anger is much more productive. This has to end. It has to end _now_.

Then her eyes shift from his, focusing over his shoulder. "Carter?" she exclaims. "Carter! Whatever are you doing here?"

Chuck turns and finds himself looking at a teenager. Well dressed. Golden brown hair. Cobalt blue eyes. The young man resembles an older version of Nathaniel.

"Sit down, Carter," Georgina is ordering. "Join us." And this guy, this Carter complies and pulls over a chair, forcing Chuck to slide closer to Georgina.

"I can't stay. I've got this thing later. Little get together while the parents are in Europe," Carter says. The smug bastard does not even bother looking his direction. Chuck's face is bland, but inside he is seething. The social snub bothers him.

As if she is oblivious to Carter's rudeness, Georgina flirtatiously says, "Sounds fun. When?"

"Most people are showing up around ten, but the pre-party festivities are starting… well, whenever I get there," he boasts. His finally deigns to glance at Chuck, his eyes raking over him before turning away dismissively, unimpressed. "_You_ should come." His tone makes it abundantly clear that the invitation only extends to Georgina.

She nods knowingly. "What time is it now?" she inquires of Chuck with nudge of her foot against his leg. Something glints in her eye.

With an annoyed breath, Chuck pulls back his cuff to glance at his watch. Suddenly, Carter's hand closes around his wrist. "Holy shit! Is that a Piaget?"

"What? My watch?" Chuck responds in confusion.

"Don't call it a watch. If it costs more than ten grand, it earns a proper name." Carter runs his fingers enviously over the platinum band. "It is a Piaget! However did you get one?"

Tugging his wrist free, Chuck replies with a sneer, "My last birthday. My father got it for me." He doesn't add that it was also the birthday his father forgot, or that he would have preferred an evening watching hockey with his dad over the extravagant gift. But then the watch was much more costly, and money seemed to be how Bart Bass equated love.

Carter looks at Chuck again, reassessing. "I'm sorry. I was impolite. What did you say your name was again?"

"Chuck _Bass_," Georgina says immediately, emphasizing his last name.

"Bass? As in Bass Industries?"

Her lips turn up in pleasure. "The very same."

With an appraising nod, Carter extends his hand. "I'm Carter Baizen. You should come too. It'll be fun."

Shaking the proffered hand warily, Chuck begins, "Thanks, but I – "

"Already have plans tonight?" Georgina cuts in. Her tone is like syrup. "With _Blair_, right? I really should call her." The threat behind her words is implicit.

"No! I mean, I… I don't have any plans. I'd love to come."

"Great," Carter says as Georgina smirks. Chuck catches a look pass behind her eyes, a small flicker that informs him that bumping into Carter here was not random at all, but part of some larger plan. Just another move in her twisted game where he has a pawn.

And something inside him shifts ever so slightly. Initially, he does not notice the difference. It is too subtle. Then, he slowly realizes. The panic, that trapped animal feeling? It's still there, but it's _diminished_ somehow. Less urgent. Even when she places her hand upon his thigh beneath the table, the screaming in his head seems distant.

He reaches down, covers her hand with his, interlaces their fingers. The terrifying pressure in his chest increases. The shrieks inside his skull grow louder. Still, he does not let go, does not back down. He wills himself to meet her gaze.

Her whole expression is radiant. She's smiling, and for once it is a real smile. One that transforms her face and makes her beautiful. His breath catches in his throat.

Then his hand tightens around hers, clamping down, squeezing. Her eyes narrow as she tries to draw her hand away, but he grasps it with everything he has. His grip is like a vice.

"Chucky," she says, her lips stretching tightly over her teeth. Her tone is the tiniest bit strained.

He looks back at her steadily. His features are all politeness and pleasantry. He leans forward, whispers softly into her hair like a lover. His voice is smooth, clear, absolutely effortless.

_Fight or flight_?

"You want to play, bitch? Let's play."


	11. Chapter 11

_And now you've become a part of me_

_You'll always be right here_

_You've become a part of me_

_You'll always be my fear_

_I can't separate myself from what I've done_

_Giving up a part of me_

_I've let myself become you_

-Linkin Park-

He isn't positive when it happens. When the tormented expression leaves his eyes completely and they become cold and calculating. When his smile is replaced by a disparaging sneer. When he realizes the reflection in the mirror is someone he no longer recognizes.

Had it been a gradual decay? Had pieces slowly eroded away until all that lingered was the poisoned core she had instilled in him? Or was it quick? A rapid decline that had erased himself and left her masterpiece behind? Could he have done it differently? Would it have been enough? He doesn't know.

So many things can happen in a moment, and the moments string together to create an existence. A thought formed. A word spoken. A step taken. Should he plot them out? Trace their inexorable progression from A to B? Pinpoint exactly when it became too late, when the balance shifted past the tipping point and he became more _her_ than him? He isn't sure.

Then again, are the minute details of his downfall significant? Is the proper sequence important? Would having that knowledge change anything?

So many questions that keep him up at night. Questions without answers.

But in the end, he thinks, it doesn't really matter. Answers or no, isn't the result the same? Either way,

Chuck Bass the innocent was dead. Gone as surely as if he'd been consumed by fire, ashes lost to the breeze. All that remained was Chuck Bass the cynic, scathed but stronger for it. Hardened. Remorseless. Able to do what must be done without flinching or doubting or second guessing.

Georgina would be so proud.

He pushes the questions away. They are the thoughts he tortures himself with when he's feeling especially masochistic. What's done is done, and there's no changing it. No epiphany that would make it all better. No magical solution waiting to be found. He's been over it too many times. He knows there is no justification that would satisfy. No explanation that could suddenly make it all clear. There are no resolutions, and the only certainty he has is that it started that night. The night he met Carter Baizen.

Carter is not his friend. Never his friend. Anyone who willingly associates with Georgina Sparks is not to be trusted under any circumstances. But Carter is a mentor. Surely that. He takes Chuck under his proverbial wing as it were. Shows him all the pleasures that wealth and privilege can bring. The trendiest clubs. The hottest restaurants. The escorts who know how to keep their mouths shut.

Carter is using him, of course. Using him for the influence of his last name, for easy access to hotel suites and limos, for the hoards of cash Bart Bass bestows upon his son instead of real affection. Chuck understands this, and is fine with the situation. Considers it was a fair trade. After all, he is using Carter too. Using him to gain entrance to Georgina's world.

From the relative safety of a group, he observes her in her own element. Studies her. Learns the intricacies of deception and manipulation. How to expose a weakness. How to exploit it. All the tricks of the trade, straight from the master, that he will need in order to mount an assault against her.

She isn't pregnant, obviously. He suspects as much, but she lets him doubt for a long time until at last he catches her drunk and high on Carter's favorite combination, champagne and cocaine.

"What about the baby?" he demands.

"There _is_ no baby. There never was," she laughs. "Like I'd be stupid enough to get pregnant by a pathetic excuse like you!"

And in a flash of anger, he breaks the cardinal rule of being male. He slaps her across the mouth, hard enough for her teeth to cut into her lip. She touches the blood, looks at it on her finger, then licks it off in a way that make him want to vomit.

"If you wanted to play rough, all you had to do was ask," she jeers as he flees, her mocking laughter ringing in his ears.

But that isn't the end of it. Days later, how he pays for that slap. Gossip Girl, an anonymous blogger who mostly keeps tabs on the high school students at St. Jude's and Constance suddenly seems to take a particular interest in him. The timing is just too much of a coincidence as incriminating photos begin to appear on the website. Chuck and Georgina locked in an embrace at Butter. Chuck taking a shot of tequila. Chuck holding a martini at a club with Carter. Chuck with a joint to his lips. Chuck kissing a brunette, a redhead, a blonde, another brunette.

And Serena glares and stops talking to him completely. Nate, meanwhile, thinks it is the coolest thing ever and begs to meet Carter. Only Blair, Blair who has been distant since her harsh words in his hallway, approaches him with concern.

"What is going on Chuck? This isn't you!" she states with conviction.

There is nothing he can say to her. No way to possibly make her understand without telling her the truth, and that is something he knows he can never do. He tries to brush her off, but she clutches his arm, insistent.

"Chuck, please! Talk to me. I'm worried about you," she pleads.

He roughly jerks his arm from her grasp with a sneer. "Stay out of it!" he snaps. She reels back from the harshness in his tone, unshed tears welling in her warm brown eyes. Her lips press together and she straightens, drawing herself up. She turns and walks away, dark chestnut curls bouncing, head high, a model of dignity. Watching her retreat, he forces himself not to call after her, knowing it is better to let her go than risk pulling her under with him.

Good thing too, because the pictures keep coming, each more damning than the last. And all Chuck can do is stiffen his spine, act like he doesn't care that conversations stop when he enters a room, smirk in disdain and mock his classmate's naivety calling them children. Fucking _children_.

Is it possible he plays his part too well? So well that eventually it stops being pretend?

But what else can he do? He has to bide his time. Look for an opening, an opportunity for her to get careless, to slip up. So he acts the role of the bad boy incarnate, watching, waiting for his chance.

When it finally comes, he is ready. More than ready. Eager.

And since this charade had began at Butter so many nights ago, he thinks it only fitting that it should end there too. Which is why he invites Georgina to dinner and sits across from her now. He is sure she will appreciate the irony.

"I wanted to thank you," he begins, but she quickly cuts him off.

"Cut the crap, Chucky."

"No, really. I do," he says. "Everyone has a price, G. You taught me that."

She rolls her eyes in irritation. "Are you going somewhere with this?"

"I brought you here tonight to make you an offer," he tells her simply.

"I don't give a damn about your money," she sneers.

He takes a breath. "I know that. But there are things you do give a damn about. Your carefree lifestyle, for instance." Now is the moment. The point of no return. He presses a button on his cell. Seconds later, her phone beeps inside her Louis Vuitton clutch. "You might want to check that."

With a patronizing sigh, she glances at the waiting message. Her eyes narrow slightly. "What is this?"

He keeps his expression neutral. "Don't you recognize it? It's a little get together. I think Carter called it the Lost Weekend."

Snapping her phone closed, she snorts, "Nice try, dear, but Carter didn't allow cameras into that party."

He nods in solemn mockery. "And with good reason too. Someone could take pictures. Like this one."

He presses send again, and raising one cynical brow she reopens her cell. He watches her lips compress into a thin line as she looks at the screen.

"See that guy? The one you are so expertly snorting cocaine with? A senator's son, if I'm not mistaken. But then, I'm sure you are already well aware of who he is, that's why you sucked his cock at the party, correct?" With a touch of his finger, a third image appears on her cell. "In the pool room. Not exactly discreet."

She raises cruel eyes to his. "You bastard," she hisses.

Chuck fights to keep the exultant smirk off his face. It wouldn't be wise. "No need to get upset. I totally sympathize. I mean, there are a lot of photos of my dubious activities out there online. None from a party quite like this though. A true expression of excess, wasn't it?" Another press of a button, another snapshot on her phone. "Think of what else you did that weekend with your precious Upper East Side connections, Georgina. A blow job is really the least of your worries."

She's gripping her cell so tightly her knuckles are white. The glare gives him is murderous, and Chuck finally realizes the full implications of the phrase 'if looks could kill.' A bead of sweat trickles down between his shoulder blades. Please God, let this work.

"Now, here is the deal," he says matter-of-factly. "You fuck up my life, I fuck up yours. You tell people I raped you, I send these to your parents, to Gossip Girl, to the press, to the homes of everyone you know in New York. You ruin me, and you'll be involved in the scandal of the decade." He pauses to let the gravity of the situation sink in. "So what's it going to be Georgina? Mutual destruction? Or a ceasefire?"

He stares at her, and she stares back. Neither willing to budge or back down. Finally, she wets her lips and looks away. The tension in his chest eases minutely.

"Well played Bass," she says grudgingly.

"I learned from the best." He raises his glass in a bitter salute.

She acknowledges his gesture with the slightest nod, purses her lips in thought. "Fine. A truce." Picking up her glass, she clinks it with his and downs the drink in one gulp. Looking at him amusedly over the crystal rim, she adds, "But do you really think you can go back? Just stop and forget about everything you've done to get here?" She shakes her head and breaks into a vicious grin. Holding up her phone, she indicates the picture still on the screen. "You didn't infiltrate this world, Chucky. You became part of it. You're one of us now. Congratulations!"

Disturbed by her proclamation, he leaves her sitting there laughing. Let the whore pay for her own dinner, he thinks. What the hell does she know, anyway? Spiteful bitch. She's just jealous, upset that he won.

Once he's back in the limo, however, it doesn't feel like he won. It feels like he lost. Something is _missing_. He can sense it, the emptiness inside. He starts to shake. With relief or fear or something else, he isn't sure. All he knows is that he wants, _needs_ something. Someone.

He goes to Blair. He hasn't seen her in… Well, it's been a while. But she is still the one person he knows whose opinion matters the most, although he would never tell her that. It would go to her head. Expecting her to smile when she discovers him upon her doorstep, he is surprised at her look of disappointment and disgust.

"What are you doing here? We're not friends anymore, Chuck. Lately, I don't even know who you are."

He sees her condemning expression, the accusations in her eyes, and tells the absolute truth. "Neither do I," he confesses.

She shakes her head. "I don't want your excuses."

"Blair, please –" His voice is painfully small.

Crossing her arms over her chest protectively, she snaps, "No! We're done here. Just go."

He is out on the sidewalk, getting into his limo, when Blair calls after him. He turns and there she is, a glare twisting her beautiful features. "I'll be watching you, Bass. Nate can't see reason when it comes to you, but if you try to bring him down, corrupt him with your depravity, I swear to God, I will do everything I can to end your friendship."

For a second, he's too shocked to respond. Then habit takes over. A sneer curls his lips. "Try it princess. I dare you," he taunts before slamming the door of the limo in her outraged face.

That same night, at Carter's house, he sleeps with a stranger. Frantic hands and hurried kisses with a girl who looks like Blair and tastes like Georgina, and afterwards he's sick and shamed. But he rejoins the party and there's Carter's outstretched palm holding a white pill. Chuck asks what it is, and the older boy asks him if it matters. He takes it with a swallow of scotch and a wish to forget. As the amber liquid burns down his throat, he tells himself that is why his eyes are stinging.

Later on, there are other nights with Carter Baizen. Another club, another drink, another drug, another girl. And the evenings become less distinct. The parties blend together into a never ending celebration of hedonism. Even when Carter graduates and disappears from the Upper East Side, the self-gratification doesn't stop. Chuck, Baizen's protégé, continues the festivities.

And the women keep coming. He doesn't even have to try. They practically throw themselves at him. Deep down, he understands that they don't actually want him. They want his money. They don't even really see him as a person. Gradually, he stops seeing them as people too.

Chuck Bass as no use for women

Correction.

Chuck Bass has _one_ use for women, and one only.

Like the woman beneath him now.

He rolls off of her onto his back, gasping. Already, mere seconds later, he can't remember her name. He's too high, too drunk, too _numb_ to care. And yet not numb enough. Never enough. Georgina's mocking laugh still grates in his brain.

He shudders, and the girl next to him snuggles into his side. He pulls away brusquely. Chuck does _not_ cuddle. It's a rule. Fucking. That's it. Anything more leads to trouble. Anything more and they get clingy, thinking he cares. He doesn't. He won't. It's better for him if they understand right at the beginning that they're just a means to an end. A way to forget.

But this one obviously hadn't understood the game. Or worse, thought she was _special_ and the rules therefore didn't apply. And now she's _talking_. Wonderful. He prefers when they don't.

He ignores her chattering, and gets out of the bed. Pours himself a scotch. With his back to her, his recollection of her face is fading, blurring into the others. Only her hair remains distinctive in his memory. Long sable tresses cascading in soft curls. He'll remember that. The other details don't matter, but the hair… Some nights the hair matters. It matters a lot for reasons he won't admit even to himself.

The tousled waif in his bed is still talking, but he can't hear her. Georgina's voice is ghosting through his head like a contemptuous caress, disturbingly familiar, "…_touch anyone, you'll think of me, of this_."

He gulps at the scotch, hoping this time it will warm more than his stomach. That it'll burn away all remnants of _her_. He can still feel her hands upon him.

Then there _are_ hands upon him.

He whirls and sees it is the stupid slut who just won't take a hint. His nostrils flare in annoyance. He needs her to leave. Now. He's tempted to throw money at her and thank her for services rendered, but she's not that kind of girl. Right now, he wishes she was. The transactions were always so much simpler.

Obviously, subtlety is not going to work with this chick. He'll need to be more explicit, but in a way that avoids direct confrontation. He doesn't want a scene, even behind the closed doors of his suite.

He picks up his scotch, and takes the bottle along for good measure. He pads to the bathroom, firmly shutting the door behind him. Once inside, he locks it in the event she decides to follow him. When he doesn't return, she'll eventually put the pieces together and go. Most likely call him a few choice phrases on her way out. Maybe break something. The clingy types usually do. It's typical.

Sitting on the edge of the bathtub, he hopes the bitch will leave sooner rather than later. He has plans tomorrow. The Sheppard wedding, an infernal all day affair, and if he is going to make it, he needs some sleep. He wants to be rested because weddings mean bridesmaids, and he plans to bang half of them before the reception is over and he hits the town with Nathaniel.

Chuck smiles, thinking of his best friend. Nate is so _good_. Through it all, he has stood by Chuck's side, has not judged him. Nate is the only one who knows almost everything Chuck has done and still looks at him like he is a person. Under the weight of that accepting gaze, Chuck feels like the worthless piece of shit he is. He's glad for the reminder, needs it really. It helps keep him in check. Prevents him from becoming a true monster.

Sipping his scotch, he considers inviting Serena to join them. Recently, they have come to an _understanding_. She still throws snide barbs at him, but the insults no longer hold the sting they once did. It's difficult for her to look down upon him when she's standing in the pit herself. After all, they are both _her_ creatures, Georgina's creations. Without ever having to speak the words, they know this about each other. Only the two of them really comprehend what kind of a person Georgina is, and the knowledge has formed a fragile bond between them. He won't acknowledge it, but he is thankful. He had missed the blonde's friendship.

But there is one person whose friendship he has not missed. If it was possible for fifteen year old world weary Chuck Bass to hate anyone as much as he hates Georgina, it would be her.

Blair _fucking_ Waldorf.


	12. Chapter 12

_How did it start?_

_Well I don't know, I just feel the craving_

_I see the flesh and it smell fresh and it's just there for the taking_

_These little girls they make me feel so goddamn exhilarated_

_I fill them up, I can't give it up_

_The pain that I'm just erasing_

-Korn-

Weddings are all alike, and he is _so_ not drunk enough for this one. Too late, he realizes he should have brought a flask. He'll remember next time. For now, he'll have to suffer through it sober.

The ceremony lasts forever until he is tempted to just stand up and shout to put the fucking ring on her finger! It wasn't like the marriage wouldn't end in divorce anyway. They all did, especially in the Upper East Side. So best to hurry it along and quit wasting everyone's time with all this lovey dovey crap. People only attended these things for the open bar anyway.

But the reception is a bust too. Sure there are bridesmaids aplenty, all alike in horrid chartreuse gowns chosen by the bride so that none of her friends had a chance of upstaging her, but even he has _standards_. There isn't any challenge when it takes little more than a smile to get them to raise their skirts. The only time he fucks a girl that easy is when he's paying for her.

He sips his scotch and tries to avoid eye contact with the desperate blonde that has been staring at him. Bitch can find another dick to ride. _His_ is getting out of here as soon as he finds his best friend.

His dark eyes scan the crowd of Manhattan's well dressed and wealthy. Across the room, he spots a familiar head of chestnut curls, but no sign of Nate. Still, Blair will certainly know where he is. She always does.

Bitch.

Downing the last of his scotch, he stalks off across the room, deftly swerving to sidestep the bimbo bridesmaid. As he passes her, he catches a whiff of her perfume. His jaw tightens involuntarily as the vanilla scent invades his nostrils.

That's all it takes. The faintest trace of a smell he wishes he could forget and the memories crash to the forefront of his brain, bursting into his awareness. "_Hello Chucky._" A fleeting whisper in his mind. Georgina's mocking voice. He shivers despite the late summer heat as the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

He needs to get away from that awful stench right now. Increasing his stride to put more distance between himself and the slut, he quickly makes it to Blair's side. Scornful laughter only he can hear follows him every step of the way.

Blair raises a sardonic brow as he approaches. "Bass," she acknowledges with absolute civility. She's always been good at this, the thin veneer of politeness that she uses to disguise her utter contempt of him while others are around.

He leers at her, his eyes dipping pointedly to the slight swell of her breasts above the top of her dress, certainly a Waldorf original. He allows his gaze to linger there until she grows uncomfortable, shifts her stance ever so slightly.

"Stop it, Chuck," she says in a voice of perfect courtesy. No one but he knows how hard she is fighting to maintain that façade of composure. That's why he does things like this. Each time pushing a little further, goading her closer to the edge. One of these days that serene mask is going to fall and he plans to see it. Hell, he plans to be the _cause_ of it.

He finally raises his eyes to her face. Her mouth is stretched in a tight lipped smile that is not really a smile at all. Seeing it, he smirks.

"What do you want?" she asks, the barest hint of derision coloring her innocent words.

"Nathaniel. Where is he?"

Instead of answering him, she raises her glass of champagne to her ruby lips. Takes a long slow sip, savoring the taste before she swallows it. Her tongue peeks out, catching the last drops of the sparkling liquid glistening upon her bottom lip.

Chuck's hot gaze follows every move. Sometimes he thinks she does stuff like this deliberately. That she is fully aware of the lush allure of her mouth, and the power her moistened lips possess. Other times, however, he has his doubts. There is something too beautiful, delicate and untouched about her for the action to be intentional.

Now is not one of those times.

Regardless, he feels blood rushing towards his belly, the first stirrings in his groin. Then the taunting voice of the whore from years past intrudes on his thoughts, effectively killing the impulse stone dead. "…_touch her, touch anyone_…" Georgina's cruel tone echoes, mixes with her laughter. He shudders at the memory.

"Where the fuck is Nate, Waldorf?" he snaps, much louder than he intends. Several heads turn in their direction. Blair grins pleasantly at the onlookers like everything is all right before turning her hateful glare to him.

"What is your problem?" she grinds out through her forced smile. "Nate went with Serena to find her purse. She set it down inside somewhere. I'm sure they'll be right back."

With a sound of impatience, he turns abruptly from her and heads towards the large flower draped archways that will lead him back indoors. Once there, he begins searching the rooms for Nate. He's on an upper walkway overlooking a closed private bar when he inadvertently stumbles upon some people having sex. Before the couple realizes he is there, he quickly heads back the way he came. He's just about to the exit when a low moan from below stops him. Although he has never heard it make this particular sound, he immediately recognizes the voice. Surreptitiously so as not to be seen, he returns to the railing and peers over.

Holy _fucking_ shit!

After the initial shock, the first thing he feels is a stab of annoyance. After months of pursuing her, _Nate_ is the one Serena finally bangs.

Typical.

The story of his life: Chuck Bass, second always to Nate Archibald, the boy who does no wrong.

Damn it.

At that thought, a twinge of guilt flares within Chuck. It isn't Nate's fault, he reminds himself. Nate can't help that people are drawn to his easygoing manner. The one that allows everyone to think of him as their own personal best friend. Besides, Nate is so _young_ still, so naive. He probably had no idea what was going to happen when he came in here. Can't blame him for that. But Serena? Chuck can blame her just fine.

After all, she isn't a virgin. _Far_ from it. But Nate _is. _Or rather,_ was._ And because Nate still believes in love and devotion and all that crap, Chuck thinks his friend deserved to have had his first time with someone better. Someone who believes in romance too. Someone like Bl –

Well, someone other than this golden haired hussy who's riding him like a pro. Not a tramp who would fuck her best friend's boyfriend.

He stops. Thinks. Smirks. It's quite an admirable feat really. If only he'd thought of it.

But no. That isn't an option. Not with Blair. Nothing can assail that frigid bitch. Not even Nate has made it past her chastity belt. But maybe…

He shakes the thought away.

No, Chuck knows better than to try for Blair's cherry. She belongs to Nate, and if she spreads her legs for anyone, it will be for Nate and Nate only. Although…

No, he admonishes himself. No, _never_, no. He's your best friend, remember? And you hate her! Despise her! Focus, Bass, don't lose sight of the goal, of the plan!

Ah, yes. The plan. It was almost as good as conquering the virgin queen. He'd gone after her cohort one by one. And somehow she always knew without him having to boast about it. For a while there'd be one less girl on the Met steps at lunch, one unfortunate waif ostracized for the crime of sleeping with Chuck Bass. Then, after enough penance, Blair would welcome her wayward disciple back into the fold while Chuck selected from the rest and began a new seduction. Each conquest a little more challenging than the one before until at last all of her minions had been fucked until they walked funny and then sent packing back to Blair.

All except Serena. Whom he'd been pursuing. Who was right now screwing his best friend and ruining the entire damn plan!

Fuck!

He supposes he could just continue chasing her. It'll take longer now, but he can be patient when it is beneficial for him to be so. Then again, there might be another way to hurt Blair, he thinks as he glances back over the rail. A much better way that does not involve Nathaniel's sloppy seconds.

All those times Blair has thrown Nate's perfection in Chuck's face? Condemned him with look and word? Reminded him at every turn how _beneath_ Nathaniel he is?

Well, Blair's golden boy isn't looking so golden anymore. Not while he pounds into her best friend. As much as she claims Nate is a thousand times better than him, Nate is still _fucked_ up. It will crush her to find out her wonderful perfect prince is just as flawed as everyone else. Add in Serena's betrayal, and the ice queen will fall.

But he can't betray Nathaniel that way. Bros before hoes and all that. Even if it wouldn't _exactly_ be choosing Blair over Nate. More like choosing to hurt her at Nate's expense…

Chuck runs a hand through his hair angrily. He can't do it. Nate would never forgive him. There has got to be another way.

He considers. This secret is big, far too big to keep for long. It'll eventually come out all on its own with no help from him. Once the three of them get together, it's bound to happen. Blair will sense something is wrong. She's intuitive like that. She'll press, and force the issue. But it won't be Serena who crumples under the guilt. Oh no. She's too good a liar. Georgina has taught her well. But Nate? He'll confess. He'll feel obligated to. And really, Blair hearing it from him is even better. More damaging.

So maybe Chuck _will_ help. He could _encourage_ it surely. _Arrange_ something. Host a _friendly_ little gathering. Get them in the same place. Throw in some alcohol to weaken reserves. Then sit back and wait for the fireworks. It's foolproof. The truth will come out, no one will be able to pin it on _him_, and he'll have front row seats to the destruction of Blair Waldorf.

Genius.


	13. Chapter 13

_What would happen if we kissed?_

_Would your tongue slip past my lips?_

_Would you run away?_

_Would you stay?_

_Or would I melt into you?_

_Mouth to mouth?_

_Lust to lust?_

_Spontaneously combust?_

_What would happen if we kissed?_

-Meredith Brooks-

The problem with a foolproof plan, he muses, is that the very word 'foolproof' is an oxymoron. Nothing can stop a truly determined idiot, and all labeling his plot as infallible had done was tempt fate. It was the equivalent of calling the Titanic '_unsinkable,_' and everyone knows how well that had turned out.

So Chuck really shouldn't be surprised that his idea has been foiled. But honestly, he is.

"She's gone," Blair says seconds after he opens the door. He blinks at her uncomprehendingly. He's only been up for… well the time it took to walk from his bed to the entrance.

"She's _gone_," Blair repeats, pushing past him into the suite.

"Who's gone, princess?" he calls after her. She doesn't answer him, doesn't even acknowledge he has spoken. In a flash of irritation, he wishes he had let the girls from last night stay over. It would have been worth it to see the look on Blair's face when she spotted the three brunettes in his bed. He'd love to see what her mind made of _that_. But alas, it is not to be. Not today at least.

"Nate? Nate?" her voice drifts down the hall towards Chuck. He grits his teeth in annoyance. He can tell he is going to have one hell of a headache if he doesn't go back to sleep very soon. He follows down the hallway after her.

"Where's Nate?" Blair demands as soon as he reenters the room.

"Not here. Obviously," he drawls passing her.

"Well where is he?"

"Don't know. Don't care," he says as he crawls back onto the bed. He pauses, his smoldering gaze raking over her body. "Now, I'm going back to sleep, unless you're joining me, in which case…"

He reaches suggestively for the drawstring on his stripped silk pajama bottoms. At her appalled expression, he breaks into a wicked grin and pulls the covers over his head with a laugh. A moment later, the blankets are snatched away.

"You're disgusting," she exclaims from the foot of the bed.

"And you're still wearing clothes," he observes drily.

She rolls her eyes, ignoring his comment. "I need to find Nate, Chuck."

He stretches one arm behind his head, propping it up. "Well I don't know where he is princess. So either leave, or take those off." Using his free hand, he begins deliberately undoing the buttons of his nightshirt while he leers.

Blair reaches out and slaps downwards. The crack of her palm connecting with his leg is unusually loud in the otherwise silent suite. He doesn't acknowledge it with anything other than a brief wince, but that fucking _hurt_.

"I'm serious," she shouts down at him. "I have to find Nate, talk to him."

"Get the hell out and call him then," he snaps, his temper rising to meet hers.

"I tried," she admits. An emotion flashes across her face so quickly that Chuck almost doubts that he saw it. "He isn't answering."

Of course he isn't, Chuck thinks. Nate's probably wracked with guilt over screwing Serena. No way he is going to be talking to his girlfriend anytime soon

Chuck deliberates as he avoids meeting Blair's probing gaze. Then he looks back at her, smirks. "Call Serena," he suggests. "Maybe she knows where he is."

In vexation, Blair roars at him. "For the third time, she's gone!"

He sits up, his attention fully engaged. "What do you mean Serena's gone?"

"Just that. She left. I just spoke to her mom. She's gone to a boarding school in Connecticut!" Blair explains in a weird voice. It's too high pitched. Strained.

He winces at the strident quality of it and curses Serena. He hadn't counted on her running away from her dirty little secret. The slut has effectively ruined his plan to destroy Blair Waldorf.

Twice!

Bitch.

"She never even told _me_, Chuck," Blair continues. "She didn't even say goodbye." Then without explanation, she giggles, and he thinks it is quite possibly the most _unsettling_ sound he has ever heard. There's an edge of madness in it. Hysteria.

What the hell?

Disturbed, he nods, keeping his face neutral. "Okay. So Serena's gone and that's why you need to talk to Nathaniel. I get it."

She nods back at him, too rapidly to be normal. "Yes! I mean, no! I mean – " she says. Then the façade of her composed face cracks, breaks, and she is _crying_. She buries her face in her hands and sinks onto the foot of his bed.

Shit.

Watching the meltdown, Chuck is conflicted. He can't remember the last time he saw Blair Waldorf cry. He dreams of making her cry precisely because she _doesn't_ cry, like he doesn't cuddle. The entire reasoning behind his scheme for her to learn about Serena and Nate is so that she _will_ cry. But somehow, actually seeing her do it, seeing her small shoulders shake as hot tears run down her face isn't filling him with the pleasure he thought it would.

He is _so_ not prepared to handle this, and he'll be damned if he knows what to do.

He gets up, pads to the wet bar, and pours himself a scotch. He pauses, considering. Pours another, and walks back to the girl on his bed.

"Here," he says, extending the highball. "Take it. You'll feel better."

She raises her face, and she really is a mess. Puffy eyes. Reddened nose. Mascara running in dirty tracks down her cheeks. Yet oddly enough, he thinks she has never looked more beautiful.

Concerned despite himself, he watches her delicate fingers curl around the proffered glass. They brush momentarily against his. Then with hollow eyes, she brings the drink to her lips and swallows. Robotically, she repeats the actions until the tumbler is empty.

As she hands it back to him, he cautiously asks, "What the hell is going on, Waldorf?"

She lowers her head, stares at her Louboutin flats. "My parents…" she finally says, but her voice trails off until it is inaudible.

"What about your parents?" he prompts when she doesn't speak again.

"They're…" She stops. Draws in a shuddering breath. "They're getting a divorce."

"So?" he replies as carefully as he can, trying to keep smirk off his face. But really, he does not get why she is so upset. After all, a failed marriage is an inevitability, not a rare occurrence.

"Chuck, my dad left my mom for a model!" She says it like it is the most scandalous confession he's ever been privy to. This time he isn't able to suppress his reaction. He snorts. Even when she glowers at him, he can't stop. The absurdity is just too humorous.

"Blair, is this seriously what's got your La Perlas in a bunch? This is the Upper East Side! Men leave their wives for models every other day."

With a harsh cry, she explodes, "Not for _male_ models they don't!"

"Oh," he says in shock. He wishes he could take that single syllable back as soon as it leaves his mouth and he sees her flinch.

"See!" she wails. "See! And soon it'll be all over Gossip Girl. Everyone will know, all the kids at school, and oh my God…" Her voice dissolves into incoherent weeping.

Fuck.

Letting her cry herself out, he drains his scotch. When her sobs start to wane, he speaks.

"Don't worry about people at school."

"Don't worry?" she says incredulously.

"Who cares what they think. Just screw them."

She blinks at him in incomprehension. "Excuse me?" she says, a hint of offence in her tone.

Don't do this, he tells himself. Don't interfere. Who cares if the wolves of the high school drag her down? Certainly not Chuck Bass. Him? He'll _celebrate_. Drink a toast. Laugh at the pain in her eyes. The hurt… The…

He is so royally _fucked_.

With an exasperated sound, he rakes his hand through his hair, then grabs her slim shoulders.

"You are Blair _fucking_ Waldorf," he tells her. "Soon to be Queen of Constance Billard, whom every guy wants and every girl wants to be! No one can take that from you. Not unless you let them. Not unless you give up. So don't you dare. Don't you fucking dare give them the satisfaction, understand me?"

His dark eyes penetrate into hers, honest and brutal. Then his gaze softens, along with his tone, "This is your moment to be the heroine from one of your movies, princess. You are Grace Kelly. Grace Kelly is you."

He expects her to pull away from him, glare, mock, jeer, anything but what she actually does. Anything but just sit there and look back at him like she's never really seen him before. She swallows, licks her lips. His gaze is drawn to the subtle movement.

And inexplicably something changes. The air is suddenly filled with electricity, tension crackling in the small space between them. His pulse in racing and his skin where it touches hers is on fire, burning in a way that should hurt but doesn't. Unbidden, he realizes his thumbs are tracing patterns on her arms. He wonders absently how long they have been doing that.

"Chuck," Blair says, her voice breathless and completely without pretense.

He glances back to her eyes, and what he sees in those chocolate depths dries up all the saliva in his mouth. The look she is giving him is so foreign, so open, so… _intimate_.

"Blair," he manages to whisper. So much hesitancy and desire in that one word.

And then one of them is leaning forward. He isn't sure if it is her, or him, or both of them together, but their lips are now incredibly close and he can feel her soft sweet breath against his face and he's never wanted anything that scared him so much in his entire life.

The instant before their lips touch, a cruel phantom caress against his cheek, a mocking voice in his head. "…_your_ _little crush_."

Instinctively, he recoils. Blair staggers and he turns away from her confused expression as reality comes slamming back along with Georgina's biting laughter.

What the _fuck_ had he almost done?

He gulps in several breaths to steady himself. He swears he can detect the slightest hint of vanilla permeating the air. He cringes.

Looking back to Blair, he finds that she is once more standing, fully in command of herself. Her lips are pressed into a grim line, a dark flush colors her cheeks and her eyes flash with restrained fury. Good, he thinks. He desperately needs her guards up until he can get his own under control.

"You!" she spits like a dirty word. The tone is chilling. Her anger always is, icy and calculating. It makes her dangerous. The cool exterior, the fire below. A deadly combination.

He twists his mouth into a smirk, forces the leer he knows she expects to see. It works.

"I hate you," she sneers before grabbing her clutch and walking haughtily to the door of his suite. He doesn't try to stop her, and only when the lock clicks into place does he allow himself to drop the show of cocky arrogance. Immediately, he crumples back onto the bed. He feels a strange urge to open his mouth and scream and _scream_ until he has no voice left.

Instead, he stands and gets his scotch, brings it to the couch. He doesn't even bother with a glass this time, just takes long swigs straight from the bottle. He's going to get sick, he knows. He's drinking too much, too fast. But he doesn't care. He'd rather puke or pass out. Anything besides being fully cognizant of what had been about to happen on his bed.

He'd nearly kissed _Blair_ _Waldorf_. His best friend's _girlfriend_. The girl he _hates_. The girl he –

In a burst of rage, he flings the bottle from him. It shatters upon the opposite wall, an explosion of glass and amber liquid.

"Fuck!" he shouts into the vastness of the empty suite. "FUCK!!!"

He buries his face in his hands, collapsing in upon himself. His eyes sting, treacherous tears preparing to fall. He wipes across his face fiercely, breathing deep. Harsh gasping lungfuls of air.

Keep it together, Bass. Keep it _fucking_ together.

Finally, he raises his head to survey the damage he'd wrought, the scotch soaked into the carpet, the shards of glass littering the floor. The maids are going to be pissed.

Shit.

His _father_ is going to be pissed.

Damn it.

Damn _her_, he thinks as he leans back upon the leather cushions.

It's only as he starts to escape into drunken dreams that it occurs to him that he isn't entirely positive _who_ he was referring to. Blair or Georgina?


	14. Chapter 14

_You make me sick_

_I want you and I'm hating it_

_Got me lit like a candle stick_

_Get too hot when you touch the tip_

_I'm feeling it, I gotta get a grip_

_And it's driving me crazy_

_Baby, don't you quit_

_You've got me going again_

_Baby, you've got me going again_

_You make me sick_

-Pink-

He blinks. That can't be right.

98.6

With a snap of his wrist, he shakes the mercury down and places the thermometer back under his tongue.

98.6

What the hell? Maybe he isn't waiting long enough.

98.6

This thing must be defective. It's the only explanation. He's obviously _ill_. Why else is his stomach fluttering like that? It's been driving him nuts for the last couple weeks. Ever since he nearly kissed –

No! Stop _right_ there. He is not thinking of that. Every time he does, the sensation only gets worse. The only time it is stronger is when he's actually around her. Thankfully, that hasn't been often lately.

Chuck wonders if it's an allergy, one of those late onset things like diabetes. Is it possible to be allergic to a person?

He reaches for the folded sheet of Plaza Hotel stationary he'd written on last night. He'd felt the urge to write after he'd sent the stunning brunette with the killer breasts home. Despite her enthusiastic ministrations, her chestnut curls, and talented mouth, he just hadn't been able to get in the mood.

Yet another reason why he knows he is unquestionably sick. Perhaps he should schedule a check up, just to get a diagnosis. And possibly some Valium.

He unfolds the paper and cocks one brow in confusion. It's a list.

#1. Forget Blair Waldorf's lips.

#2. Forget Blair Waldorf's legs.

#3. Forget Blair Waldorf's laugh.

He skips down a few.

#10. Forget Blair Waldorf's smile. It really does make her whole face light up.

#11. Forget Blair Waldorf's perfume. It smells kind of flowery. Like magnolia blossoms.

#12. Forget Blair Waldorf's headbands. She has a lot of them. They're sort of cute…

How _drunk_ had he been when he wrote this? And is that a fucking _heart_ doodled in the margin?

Oh my God.

He must be going crazy. Can allergies make one delusional?

He flips open his cell. "Arthur," he orders brusquely, "I need a doctor's appointment. When? Like yesterday!" He snaps the phone shut in irritation.

In trepidation, he glances back to the list. Should he bring it along to show his physician? It _is_ proof of his mental instability. But no. Better not, he thinks. They might try to institutionalize him.

He scans the remainder of the list warily. Near the bottom, he breathes a sigh of relief.

#26. Remember to reform plan to _destroy_ Blair Waldorf.

Finally, a sensible idea! Maybe it was only temporary insanity.

He rips off the top portion of the paper and crumples it in his hand. He tosses the wadded up ball into the waste basket, only to retrieve it seconds later. It isn't safe in the garbage, he tells himself. Anyone could find it. Best to leave no evidence. He'll burn it… later.

Right now? The plan!

Serena's leaving had screwed the last one all to hell. But she can't stay away forever, can she? The Upper East Side is her home. Surely she'll come back sometime. Christmas, perhaps? Yes, definitely then.

Can he wait that long? Four months?

Easily if he is assured of success, but what if something unexpected happens again? He has to anticipate what could go wrong. Nate's family almost always stays in town, but Blair's parents sometimes go on winter vacations. With their upcoming divorce, the probability that one of them wouldn't be in Manhattan doubled. Blair will likely have to split the holiday between them and might not be around during the crucial window of opportunity.

The odds are not favorable. Too many variables. So scratch counting on Serena's return. Something else would have to suffice.

He supposes he could just send an anonymous text with the secret to Gossip Girl and let the rumor mongering bitch do the rest for him. It would do the trick. But that was so simple. It was a bit beneath him really. Plus, it wouldn't hurt Blair nearly as much as it would if Serena was still around.

What else had the potential to cut like that?

What if Blair slept with Nate, thinking they were losing their virginities to each other, and _then_ found out about Serena? Oh, that would work. It would work beautifully.

Chuck's lips twist into a grin.

Okay, so how to get the lovebirds to do the deed?

Blair should be the easier of the two. Nate is already acting weird around her, pulling away. A few well placed comments and she'll get it into her head that if they have sex, she'll be able to hold onto him.

Getting Nate to actually _do_ it is the problem. But then, he hasn't confessed to Chuck about sleeping with Serena, so he probably won't. Chuck could use that. Call Nate's manhood into question. Pressure him to seal the deal with Blair, to tap that ass. And because Nathaniel looks up to him so much, sooner or later he'll give in. Even better, as soon as Nate blows his load in Blair, he'll brag to his best friend about it to stop the teasing. Then, after an appropriate amount of time so as not to draw suspicion, Chuck will send the text to Gossip Girl that will crush his nemesis.

Okay, that's settled then. Operation get Nate to fuck Blair is a go.

Why is his stomach suddenly roiling? The contents lurching with a wave of something like nausea? Chuck tries to remember what he has eaten today. Oh, yes. Thai. And now that he recalls it, that pad see ew had tasted a bit off.

Great. Allergies _and_ food poisoning.

He's about to pour himself a scotch, alcohol is medicine after all, when a gentle knocking draws his attention to the entrance of his suite.

He opens the door and immediately regrets it.

"Nate's not here," Chuck says hurriedly while trying to shut the door.

Blair stops it from closing with an outstretched palm. "I'm not here for Nate. I came to see you."

Upon hearing those words, the fluttering feeling in his belly kicks into overdrive.

"Why?" he sneers cruelly. "So you can say I'm disgusting again? That you hate me? I got the message last time, thanks."

Her eyes darken in anger. "Fine!" she snaps. She turns to go, but not before shoving something hard and rectangular into his chest before she storms off. He catches the object before it falls to the floor. It's a DVD case.

"What's the point of this, Waldorf?" he calls after her, but she doesn't answer. With a muttered curse, he runs after her, stops her seconds before she can enter the elevator. "What is this?"

She glares at him fiercely. "It's a movie. I thought you might want to watch it with me," she spits venomously.

"You want to watch a movie?" he repeats incredulous. He holds up the case. "_Charade_? You hate this film."

She looks down briefly, then raises defiant eyes to his. "Yeah, well maybe I've never really given it a chance."

Even colored by her temper and his, it sounds like an apology. Or as close to one as he's ever likely to get from Blair Waldorf.

And despite the fact that he knows that he should tell her to fuck off and stay as far from him as possible, a small voice inside convinces him that it'll be so much easier to destroy Blair Waldorf if he's close to her. Right?

"Fine," he grinds out. "Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant it is."

"Great," she bites back sarcastically.

Then they're walking back to his suite, each still silently fuming. The ridiculousness of the situation is not lost on either of them.

Once inside, Blair thaws a little. "I had Dorota prepare a movie night to go. She even sent snacks," she says grudgingly.

He nearly chokes on his own saliva when she proceeds to pull two fully popped bags of microwaveable popcorn from her oversized Birkin. Of course her maid had already _made_ the popcorn. She would know better than anyone that 'Miss Blair' is only domestic at Thanksgiving.

"Well, I guess I can't let Dorota's hard work go to waste," he deadpans. "Here, let me get a bowl for…" He trails off as she pulls one from the purse. "Is that like a designer Mary Poppins bag?"

She laughs, "There's soda too!" Grinning, she hands him the bowl and pulls out a couple cans of Coke. "You have rum, yes?"

"What? Didn't Dorota think to pack that too?" he mocks faux serious.

"No," Blair sighs. "She's only human, after all."

_Only_ human? He thinks the woman might be a damn saint! He never had an au pair do half the shit for him that Blair's does for her. Then again, his nanny and he did engage in other _activities_. He smirks at the memory.

Once the drinks are prepared and the disc is in the machine, Blair drags the coverlet from off his bed. She bundles herself in it and then plops unceremoniously next to him on the couch. Looking at her, Chuck smiles thinking it is exactly like when they used to do this all the time as kids.

She raises her chocolate eyes to his. "Don't try anything," she warns.

Turning his head back toward the television and pressing play on the remote, he replies, "I wouldn't _dream_ of it."

But that night, wrapped in the same blanket that had held her, breathing in the lingering traces of her perfume, he does.


	15. Chapter 15

_We're damaged people_

_Drawn together by subtleties that we are not aware of_

_Disturbed souls playing out forever_

_These games that we once thought we would be scared of_

_When you're in my arms_

_The world makes sense_

_There is no pretense_

_And you're crying_

_When you're by my side_

_There is no defense_

_I forget to sense_

_I'm dying_

-Depeche Mode-

Sometimes he thinks there must be a god. Some higher power up there laughing at his expense. Really it is the only rational explanation for this sick cosmic joke that has become his life. And if God exists, God is surely female because only a woman could be this cruel and vindictive. It's got to be karmic retribution.

Why else would he be having nightmares about her? Okay, maybe not nightmares. Dreams. But certainly not pleasant dreams. Not entirely.

Fuck.

Before, when he slept he imagined a girl who wasn't real. Never mind that she had chestnut curls and wide chocolate eyes. Ignore the fact that she smelled of magnolia blossoms and wore ridiculously conservative dresses before he stripped them off her. This dream girl didn't actually exist. She was only a fantasy. But now the fantasy had a face, and that face belonged to Blair Waldorf.

Now, when he closes his eyes, there she is. Part saint, part succubus. She smiles at him in a way she has never done in real life and he is powerless to resist her siren call. In his sleep, he is hers in a way that transcends logic. She claims him with her words, her lips, her touch. And every time, just before he surrenders to the ecstasy her embrace brings, he hears Georgina's voice.

"_She'd never look at you again if she knew._"

The shock always wakes him up, propels him from his bed in a cold sweat, gasping for air, fighting the demon in his memory. Shaking in horror and shame, lust and confusion, he feels that this must be a prelude to the hell that is undoubtedly waiting for him.

Sleep, he decides, is the enemy. Best to avoid it until necessity forces his compliance, and even then he doesn't go willingly. No, copious use of recreational substances temper his experience. Drunk and high, the dreams aren't so intense. Sometimes, he doesn't even remember them beyond a vague recollection of being caressed by Blair that is quickly forgotten.

Georgina's mocking laughter, however, is not so easily dismissed. It stays with him, lingering long after the dream has faded. It resurfaces at the most inopportune times and he finds himself haunted by thoughts of her and that awful night.

He will not remember.

He cannot forget.

And as much as he abhors agreeing with that bitch on anything, he has to admit she was right. He really can't banish the memory of his first. But he still wishes he could. He'd erase the moment his psyche had been shattered by her without a second's hesitation.

While he was at it, he'd probably expunge these disturbing dreams about Blair too. She would have nothing to do with him if she ever guessed the thoughts about her creeping around in his head. Georgina had been right about that too.

Blair and Chuck's relationship is tenuous at best, non-existent at worst. It isn't like they are friends. She'd only watched that stupid film with him that one time. And so what if that one movie night had turned into two, or three, or five? It didn't mean anything. Certainly not that he _enjoys_ her company, or that she deigns to spend time with him out of anything more than desperation. She's lonely, he reminds himself, and there literally is no one else for her to turn to. Not since Serena went away and Nate was being distant. Sure she has her minions, but she can't exactly relax around them. She is their Queen after all and must maintain appearances. He is the only person left, her incredibly convenient last resort.

And for reasons he still cannot fathom, he _allows_ it. He finds himself making excuses to leave Thursday evenings free in case she decides to come over. Not that they _ever_ have plans. Of course not! But Thursdays just frequently happen to be when she condescends to gift him with her presence. That she considers her visits to him a favor is always quite evident.

Bitch.

Chuck cannot let this continue. He is totally going to be ruined if it persists. The game is not even, but stacked against him. Already the mere thought of her holds power over him.

It isn't that he wants her. He doesn't. He couldn't. Not a girl like Blair Waldorf. It has to be something else. Some weird kink. A frigid bitch fetish or something. He's tried to get it out of his system with the best that money can buy, but alas the sluts can never quite get the glare down, that look of utter loathing she reserves especially for him.

So now he's running out of options. He has either got to fuck her, even though this isn't really a choice since he _hates_ her, or ruin the object of his fascination, which had been the original goal way back before he got sidetracked by thoughts of her laugh and the swell of her breasts and the expression she'd get on her face when he…

He rakes his hands through his hair in an effort to clear his mind.

Okay, the situation has obviously gotten out of hand. Thoughts of her are now intruding upon his waking life! She is going to be the death of him, unless he gets to her first. So destruction it is then. It's the only way.

He thinks back. He knows he'd had a plan a while ago. What had it been? Oh yeah. Get her to sleep with Nate, then alert Gossip Girl. Sounds good. That'll work.

Why the _fuck_ is his stomach acting up again?!?!

That last doctor must have been incompetent. Psychosomatic his ass! His suffering has only increased since that misdiagnosis. He makes a mental note to sue for malpractice.

Glancing at his watch, he grits his teeth in annoyance.

5:15

Blair will arrive promptly at 6. Not that he is counting on her to show up. It isn't a regular thing. It's spontaneous! The fact that it happens precisely every seven days is so beside the point. It isn't planned or anything. She'll just show up _randomly_ and then they'll snip at each other until one of them _begrudgingly_ suggests watching one of the movies that _coincidentally_ are already waiting by the DVD player so that they can sit on the couch for two hours being acutely aware of each other while reciting the film's dialogue and it is so not a date!

He will prove it. He has more than enough time.

Exactly forty-five minutes later, Blair knocks at his suite.

"Waldorf, what a surprise," he says, leaning against the doorframe.

She's about to say something back, some biting retort no doubt, when her eyes register his disheveled appearance. Chuck watches her notice the unknotted bowtie hanging loose around his neck and the top few undone buttons of his Armani shirt, the tails of which have clearly been tucked in hastily. She furrows her brow questioningly and might have spoken had the slender tanned arm not wrapped around him possessively that very second.

He really couldn't have planned it better.

For a brief moment, her expression is pure shock. Then her standby mode takes over, obscuring the display of emotion with an unreadable smile as the golden haired waif peek from behind Chuck.

The bimbo is almost a perfect doppelganger for Blair's best friend. It's why he'd singled her out at the hotel bar. Unfortunate that she was a sloppy drunk like Serena too, but it was a small drawback in the scheme of things.

"As you can see," he drawls as he pulls the blonde tightly against him, "I'm otherwise engaged with Trixie –"

"Tracey," the girl slurs.

He feels a flash of irritation. He doesn't give a shit what the slut's name is. Still, he amends, "Tracey here." Then, giving Blair a significant look, he lowers his head to kiss the Van Der Woodsen clone. It's a deep kiss, full of passion, like the kind that comes at the end of every chick flick ever made. The kind of kiss Blair Waldorf has never received from the lips of her precious Nate Archibald.

When he's finished, the blonde clings to him breathless. He looks back at his nemesis with a self-satisfied leer.

"We had plans Bass," Blair says tightly through a smile faker than a knockoff Prada bag.

Despite her chilling tone, his stomach flutters at her words. Plans! She said they had plans! She called them that! She admitted that coming over here to see him was intentional!

Fighting down the sudden surge of elation, he sneers, "So?" He slides a hand down the back of the girl in his arms to cup her ass. Blair watches the movement just as he knew she would.

She rolls her eyes in apparent disgust, but instead of turning to leave like he expects, she stands there defiant. "So _Trixie_ will have to wait!" she snaps.

"Tracey," the slut corrects, which Blair ignores as she pushes past them into the suite.

Still in the doorway, watching her straight back and casual walk, Chuck thinks perhaps he had overestimated. She doesn't seem as bothered by finding him with someone else as he had anticipated.

Then Blair calls coyly over her shoulder in a voice dripping with sweetness, "Did that rash ever clear up? It looked really painful."

"What?" the tousled blonde breathes into his face. Her eyes are unfocused and she reeks of booze. Abruptly, he shoves her out the door and slams it.

"Real cute, Waldorf," he says when he joins her in the living room. She's leaning on the back of the couch, grinning smugly.

"How much did you have to pay for her?" she asks

"I never have to pay for female companionship, princess. Sometimes I _choose_ to pay, but I never _have_ to." He takes a step forward, invading her space. Pressed against the couch, she cannot escape and they are so close now that the hem of her flared skirt brushes against his trousers. He looks down at her, glad that she is in her flats today. The height gives him a slight advantage. Still, she raises her chin insolently and looks coolly back at him. Such bravado. It is one of the things he admires most about her.

A lazy smirk spreads over his face as he whispers, "I'm Chuck Bass." Three innocuous words in and of themselves, but his husky voice gives them a seductive power. They're tempting now, dangerous, loaded with innuendo, hinting at pleasure and decadence previously unimaginable. From his lips, those words are not merely an introduction. They are a challenge, a promise, an invitation.

A flush rises in her cheeks, and he hears the way her breath catches slightly in her throat. She isn't as immune to his charms as she likes to pretend. Then as if mesmerized, she closes the space between them, the tips of her breasts brushing against his chest. Her lips part and she tilts her head back as if daring him to kiss her.

And before he can, she stomps down upon his foot with a force he would have not believed possible from one of her size. Thank God she wasn't wearing stilettos.

"Shit!" he bellows.

"I'm appalled anyone would fall for that line," Blair spits as he hops on his uninjured foot.

He looks back at her viciously. "Jealous," he sneers.

"Never."

"Notice my voice didn't go up at the end? Not a question," he states as he collapses onto the couch.

Her mouth drops open in outrage. "Why would I be jealous of your whores, Bass? I have a boyfriend."

"And yet here you are. Again," he counters. "Trouble in paradise?"

"No! We're perfectly happy," she denies hotly. Her eyes don't match her mouth, a sure indication that she is lying.

He nods at her patronizingly. "I'm _glad_ to hear that," he says, the barest edge of pity creeping into his tone as he reaches for the remote control. He knows she'll catch it.

He barely has a chance to turn the television on before she sits on the couch next to him. "What did you mean by that?"

Bingo!

Resisting the urge to grin, he turns back to her. "Nothing," he says in feigned innocence.

Her eyes narrow suspiciously. "You know something!"

He shrugs noncommittal and returns his attention back to the television. Immediately, she grabs the remote from his hand and turns it off.

"Tell me what you know" she demands fiercely. Then her resolve breaks, and a note of uncertainty comes into her voice. "Has Nate said something to you?"

"He doesn't have to."

She blinks in bewilderment. "What does that mean?"

"It means you've been together since when, kindergarten? That's a long time to wait."

"Are you saying Nate is acting weird because we haven't had sex?" she asks incredulous. She shakes her head. "No. No, he isn't like that. He's a gentleman."

Chuck sighs and looks at her sardonically. "Let me be more _succinct_. Nathaniel may be a gentleman, but he's still a guy, and guys want to get laid."

"Not that it is any of your business," she snaps, "but sex is actually kind of a big deal to some of us, unlike you!"

"Right," he nods. "A big deal. You've probably got it all planned out too. Every move already scripted probably from the day you first learned what sex was." He scowls contemptuously. "Well let me give you a hint. You can't live your whole life according to a day planner, princess. Some things are better when they aren't on the agenda."

She turns from him haughtily, eyes staring fixedly at the wall. "I don't want to talk about this anymore with you."

"Fine," he grinds out. He gets up from the leather sofa and walks with familiarity over to the television and picks up a small stack of DVDs. "So which one tonight? Tiffany's, Roman Holiday, or Funny Face?"

"How do you know I don't want to watch something else?" she replies angrily.

He snorts. "You never do."

"I brought Charade to watch that one time!" she cries, temper flaring.

"And you still hated it," he explains cutting her off. "So just pick one of your favs and let's skip all the dramatics, okay?"

Her shoulders visibly relax. "You don't mind?" she says, her voice small.

"No," he sighs.

She fiddles with the hem of her skirt, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles from the silky fabric. "Nate always complains," she confesses. "It drives him nuts watching the same films over and over."

"Well I'm not Nathaniel. Besides, I know why you do it," Chuck says confidently.

"Oh really?" she says a challenge in her eyes.

"Yeah. You need the routine. It makes you feel safe. You like knowing how things are going to turn out," he whispers as he rejoins her on the couch.

She purses her lips. "Well if I'm so easy to read, which one do I want to watch then?"

He smirks and immediately holds up the middle case. "Easy. Tiffany's."

She doesn't comment, merely arches one perfect brow.

"You used to watch it every weekend with Serena," he continues. "And since she is gone, your tradition has lapsed. The change in schedule bothers you immensely."

With a glare, she snatches the case from him and stomps towards the DVD player as he laughs.

"Cocky bastard," she mutters. "You think you know everything."

"Not everything. Just you, Waldorf."

"Well one of these days, Bass, maybe I'll surprise you."

"I doubt that."

"You don't think I could?" she says indignant. "I've got moves."

"Moves?" he repeats in amusement.

"Yeah," she boasts. "Moves you've never seen!" She sits back down on the couch, closer to him than before, with a sassy flip of her curls and a smirk to rival his.

"If you had moves, I'd already know about them." He leans forward, his voice dipping low. "But if you want to practice…"

She shoves him back. "You're heinous!"

"And you're predictable."

He presses a button on the remote, and they sit in silence for a few moments as the first strains of 'Moon River' play over the opening credits. Finally he looks at her.

"Someday, Blair," Chuck says. "Someday someone is going to upset your perfectly ordered world and it's going to be the first time you actually feel _alive_ and I just hope I'm around to see it because it will scare the shit out of you."

She drags her eyes from the screen, annoyed to have her favorite movie interrupted. "What are you talking about? I'm living my life right now!"

He smiles at her displeasure. "There's a difference between 'living' and 'alive,' princess. You just don't know it yet."


	16. Chapter 16

_Disarm you with a smile_

_And leave you like they left me here_

_To whither in denial_

_The bitterness of one who's left alone_

_Oh the years burn_

_Oh the years burn, burn, burn _

_I used to be a little boy_

_So old in my shoes_

_What I choose is my voice_

_What's a boy supposed to do?_

_The killer in me is the killer in you_

_My love_

-Smashing Pumpkins-

"That one," he says tapping the case.

Nate squints down through the glass. He meets Chuck's dark gaze doubtfully. "You think?"

"I _know_."

It is the day before Blair turns sixteen. Elsewhere in the United States, teens sharing her birth date are eagerly anticipating getting their driver's licenses, but not Blair Waldorf. Chuck knows she wouldn't be caught dead driving. Instead, as is tradition, she is on her way to the jewelers to leave some pieces on hold.

Chuck has beaten her there, and he has brought Nate along. He signals the salesclerk, pointing to a piece and indicating that they'd like to see it up close. When the short balding man removes it from behind the counter and goes to hand it to over, Chuck shoves his hands in his pockets so that his best friend will have to take it. He doesn't need to examine it. He had done so already, last week, when Blair had first given him an invitation to her party. Immediately after school, he'd gone to Tiffany's, and he'd found the perfect gift. Understated and elegant, like her.

But he couldn't get it for her. It wasn't an appropriate present to give to a friend.

Wait, was she a friend? Is that what their relationship had become? Wasn't she the enemy? Could he still plot against her if she was not? Somehow he didn't think that was allowed.

Fuck.

Well, _whatever_ they are, he still couldn't give it to her. She wouldn't accept it. Not from him. It was too… personal. But she needed to have it anyway. Something that beautiful deserved to be seen on someone worthy of its beauty.

So today he is scheming to convince her boyfriend to get it for her.

Nate peers into his outstretched palm. Cupped there is a ring. The simple golden band sports a heart-shaped ruby. "It seems a little… unimpressive," he says dubiously.

"It's _classic_, Nathaniel," Chuck sighs. "Trust me, she'll love it."

Nate hands the ring back to the jeweler unconvinced. "I don't know. Maybe I should wait until she puts some stuff on hold. Just to be sure, you know?"

"Fine," Chuck says exasperated. "We'll come back in an hour. She'll have put it on hold by then, and you can buy it with confidence."

Amused, Nate raises his eyebrows with a snort. They disappear completely behind his shaggy bangs. He really needs a haircut, Chuck notes idly.

"Chill, man," Nate laughs. "It's just a stupid birthday present."

For some reason, that comment makes Chuck unusually mad.

Oblivious, Nathaniel throws his arm around his friend and drags him from the store. They return ninety minutes later to find that Blair has indeed placed the ring on hold. Nate looks at Chuck chagrined, and purchases it without further protest.

As they get back into the waiting limo, Chuck offers a reminder to put the ring into a different box before Nate gives it to Blair.

"Why?" the golden boy asks confused.

"Because if you ever hand a girl a blue ring box from Tiffany's, you'd better be asking her to marry you," Chuck explains.

Nate nods like he understands. Maybe he even does. Then again, he could just be really high from hot boxing the limo while they'd been killing time. It's hard to tell sometimes.

"What are _you_ getting her?" Nathaniel finally says, a lazy grin spreading over his face. Definitely stoned.

"I'm not sure," Chuck lies with a shrug. "Flowers maybe?"

There is no _maybe_ about it. He already ordered her favorite flowers. They'll arrive tomorrow, a huge arrangement of hydrangeas. A week from tomorrow, she'll receive another bouquet. A week after that? Yet another. On and on and on for the entire year.

When she asks about it, because inevitably she will once she realizes the flowers are coming like clockwork, he intends to tell her they are how his father rewards his office staff for good performance reports. That isn't true, but seeing the look of outrage on Blair's face at receiving the same gift as a common secretary more than justifies saying it.

Really though, sending flowers every week was the only thing he could think of that even came close to having a shot at competing with the ruby ring. He knows she'll wear it practically every day, and each time she looks at it she will think of Nate. Chuck hopes that by always having flowers from him around, she'll be reminded of _him_ too.

Not that he really cares if she thinks of him or not.

After all, every morning he wakes up resolved to set in motion his plan to destroy her. One of these days, he is actually going to _do_ it. He's already hinted to her that Nate is drifting because they haven't had sex, but the right opportunity to influence Nate hasn't arisen so far. Not a big deal. It'll come soon. Of that he is certain.

But the next evening, after leaving Blair's party early because the sight of her fawning over Nate's perfection and thoughtfulness turns his stomach, it occurs to Chuck during a less than lucid bout of drinking that perhaps he doesn't _want_ to talk his friend into sleeping with Blair.

When he awakens after passing out on the roof of the Palace Hotel, however, he dismisses the notion as the irrational raving of his extremely inebriated self. Really, he was so smashed the night before that he is surprised to be alive. It is a miracle he didn't fall over the edge of the roof and accidently kill himself. Absolutely nothing he might have thought about in such a state is worth further contemplation, drunk _or_ sober, he decides.

As fall turns into winter, he begins to think he may be developing a problem. Blair Waldorf is like a drug, and he knows all about drugs. Sure they make a person feel good for a while, until one tries to quit and realizes they are _addicted_. Then one can't _function_ without getting a _fix_. Life becomes a rollercoaster of exquisite highs and excruciating withdrawals. He will be damned if he lets himself become dependent on a slip of a girl and be unmanned that way! He will _destroy_ her before he allows it to come to that.

But winter becomes spring, and he finds himself looking forward to those brief moments between classes when he spies her in the courtyard. He lives for Thursday evenings and watching Audrey Hepburn films with her. Shameful though it is to admit, she is almost all he thinks about, the one constant that haunts his days and plagues his nights. What's worse, however, is that he starts to consider that perhaps he doesn't want to destroy her at all, that maybe it isn't really worth it. Wouldn't breaking her up with Nate be sufficient revenge?

Then she'd be _single_…

Not that he would care if she was single. He couldn't date her, even if he wanted to. Not that he does! She'd be his best friend's ex, and thus off limits. Besides, he is Chuck Bass, and Chuck Bass does not date.

Anyway, if he did break them up, it wouldn't be for his benefit at all. He'd do it for… Nathaniel! Nate deserves better! A girl like… like… Well someone else! So really, isn't a kindness to break them up? Then Nate could date someone who was not Blair, and Blair could continue to hang out with _him_ and maybe become his... friend. A friend that's a girl. A girl friend. But not a _girlfriend_! He doesn't like her like that. He doesn't like her at all! She is a bitch and he hates her and maybe he should invite her to dinner sometime.

While he continues debating the pros and cons of breaking up the storybook couple, spring draws to an end, and with it the academic year concludes. The last school function before the start of summer vacation is the spring fling, a formal dance where the boys are off the hook finding dates because the girls have to ask. Blair, of course, takes Nate while Chuck takes nobody but himself, even though he was asked by several of Blair's minions. They all ride together in his limo to the event, and on the drive Chuck tries to keep down the feeling of anger at not having decided for sure whether to break them up or not before now so that… someone _else_ might have asked him.

He spends the first portion of the evening on the sidelines. He makes a point of never venturing onto the dance floor at these things, but tonight he is inexplicably drawn to the edge, trying to keep an eye on Blair. Her hair is pinned in loose curls, and he feels hypnotized by the exposed curve of her neck. It is a rare sight because she hardly ever wears her hair up.

He is entranced by the thought of being near her, and eventually finds himself stepping outside to phone Arthur. A short time later he returns, and after a quick conversation with the man behind the turntable, surreptitiously hands him several folded bills and a CD before casually walking away and focusing his attention on Nathaniel. When the golden boy finally leaves Blair's side to fetch her some sadly un-spiked punch near the end of a song, Chuck makes his move.

"Would you dance with me, princess?" he asks as he quickly appears in the spot Nate had just vacated. She blinks at him incredulous.

"Chuck Bass is a dancer? Who knew?" she says like his request was a joke and not a real offer at all.

"Now you do. That's all that matters," he replies smugly. "So let's dance. Unless you think you aren't good enough to keep up."

Her eyebrows rise at the implication of his words. "I'm good! I dance all the time with Nate!" she exclaims.

"And he has two left feet," Chuck counters.

"So you think you're any better?" she retorts.

He extends his hand, an appeal and a challenge. "I know I am, Waldorf."

Blair glares at him as her lips compress into a grim line. "Well if you can _lead_, Bass, I can _follow_!" she finally snaps, taking his hand and pulling him towards the center of the floor. Once they are there, she narrows her eyes suspiciously at him. "I know that look," she accuses. "The look when your plan falls into place!"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Chuck deadpans just as the music begins and her mouth drops in recognition.

"Oh really?" she cries in disbelief. "So after hours of Britney and Beyoncé, the DJ just _decided_ to play 'Moon River'?"

"Maybe he wanted to mix things up," he says in feigned innocence.

"And it just _happens_ to be once I agree to dance with you?" She shakes her head. "I don't think so."

"Think whatever you like," he smirks as he takes her into his arms, one hand splaying on the small of her back. Through her Givenchy gown, that thin layer of silk, the heat of her skin radiates into his palm. He smells her perfume as he draws her close. It envelops him in an intoxicating mixture that is half flowers and half Blair. If heaven has a scent, he thinks, _this_ is surely it.

"You cocky bastard!" she laughs as they begin moving in time to the music. She squeals with delight when he deftly dips her low then sweeps her up and across the floor. She looks into his face and her grin is breathtaking, her expression glowing.

Then, to his horror, he feels the first stirrings in his groin, and from the subtle flexing of her glove covered fingers in his hand, he knows _she_ feels it too.

_Fuck_.

Beyond embarrassed, he tries to move his hips away from hers, but the steps require she press forward and maintain the contact. A flush is creeping up his neck and he is about to turn from her abruptly and flee in humiliation, but she senses what he intends to do a moment before he does it. She tightens her grip on his shoulder and hand, preventing his escape.

"Blair – " he begins, but she silences him.

"Just shut up and dance with me," she whispers, touching the side of his face.

He meets her eyes and she looks back at him steadily as if she isn't aware that he has gotten aroused at the mere feel of their bodies pressed together, which is utterly impossible at this point. He gulps and looks away, feeling mortified, but keeps dancing, gliding them around in small, smooth circles.

When the song ends, as the other couples exit the floor, they stand there in each other's arms for a second longer than necessary as their eyes meet again. Before he can suppress the impulse, he tucks a stray curl behind her ear, his fingers brushing her cheek as he does. At the contact, a shy smile spreads over her lips.

"Thank you princess," he breathes, "…for everything." For once the nickname _isn't_ an insult. Right now, it's simply a fact. Blair Waldorf, the miniature Snow White replica that Nathaniel had introduced him to as kids, the only five year old girl in existence who could play outside in a white dress without ruining it, had finally grown into what he'd always known she would, even at that first meeting.

She'd been _like_ a princess then, but she _was_ a princess now. And like all princesses, she deserves to be kissed at the end of the night. She _is_ that girl. But he is _not_ that boy. He knows he is not. So he takes a step from her, slides one hand into the pocket of his slacks to disguise the telltale tent, and escorts her back over to Nathaniel. He leaves her with _him_, her fairy tale prince, like he always has, always will. He goes home alone for once, and gets drunk in his suite and wonders briefly what would have happened after the dance had he met her first that afternoon as children long ago.

He tries not to think about why the answer to that question matters so much.

Almost a week later, and he is already sick of summer vacation. Without school as an excuse, he doesn't get to see her most days. Thursday evening cannot come fast enough in his opinion.

When it does, Chuck is waiting. The disc is already in the machine. Not Tiffany's this time. He isn't quite _prepared_ to hear 'Moon River' in her presence again. It would be far too awkward. But Funny Face will do just fine. She loves it almost as much. He has fixed popcorn, and even managed not to burn it. Two cans of Coke sit patiently next to a couple chilled tumblers, each already containing the appropriate shots of rum. The cashmere blanket he'd purchased especially for her once their movie nights became officially 'planned' lies across the back of the couch expectantly. The only thing missing is her.

By 6:15, he has to mute the television because the music from the movie menu is getting on his nerves. It sounds mocking.

By 6:30, he turns off the DVD player, throws the popcorn away, and puts the soda back into the fridge.

By 7:00, he is _drunk_.

He spends most of Friday hungover, watching her building from behind the tinted windows of his limo. She never emerges, and eventually he considers calling Nate. He would probably have an idea of what the bitch is up to. Begrudgingly, he starts to reach to grab his cell when it rings within his pocket. He rapidly pulls it out, hoping it is her. But no. It is Nathaniel.

"Hey!" Nate exclaims as he answers. "Do you want to grab dinner together?"

"No, I… I'm sort of busy right now," he lies.

"Oh," Nate says disappointed. Chuck can practically see the downcast puppy dog eyes through the phone.

"Why don't you ask Blair?" he blurts out before he gives in to the request to eat somewhere.

Nathaniel sighs over the line. "I can't. She's gone."

That immediately draws Chuck's full attention. "_Gone_?" he repeats, too fast to disguise his interest.

Luckily, his friend seems too preoccupied to notice. "Yeah, she caught a red-eye early this morning," Nate explains. "Decided she wanted to spend the summer in Milan with her mother, I guess."

"I didn't know," Chuck says lamely, amazed that he was able to say anything at all. His mind is reeling too much. Blair _left_? Without even saying _goodbye_? What the _hell_?

"It was a real sudden decision, I think. I only found out last night myself," Nate continues oblivious.

"You saw her _last_ night?" Chuck asks, even though he is fairly certain he doesn't want to know the answer.

"Yeah, she had me over for dinner. Then we watched one of those movies she likes. Funny Girl."

Chuck swallows down his shock. "Funny _Face_?" he whispers through the vice around his chest.

"That's the one!" Nate laughs.

For a few seconds, Chuck says nothing. He can't. He's been rendered speechless. He notices absently that his free hand is clutching the leather seat of the limo so hard his knuckles are white. "At least you got to see her before she left," he finally forces himself to say.

"Yeah, but it isn't like I won't hear from her constantly," Nathaniel reasons. "You know Blair."

"Yes," Chuck replies, thinking he does indeed know Blair. Too well. Enough to recognize that whenever something happens that is not a part of her plan, she pretends like it doesn't exist. Apparently their relationship, friendship, whatever-the-fuck now fell into that category. And to ensure that she could ignore it, she had fled to goddamned _Italy_!

Bitch.

He continues making small talk with Nate through sheer force of will until he breaks down and agrees to meet for a late dinner just to get off the fucking phone. Then he taps on the limo's glass partition and tells Arthur to take him home.

Back in his suite, he moves with calm precision, purging every last trace of her. He takes the unopened cans of Coke and tosses them in the trash. The leftover bags of microwaveable popcorn follow, as well as the bottle of rum. He stuffs in the blanket she had used on so many occasions. After a slight hesitation, he rips the coverlet from his bed as well. It doesn't fit in the garbage can, so he flings it into the hall. Finally, he picks up the stack of DVDs by the television. Carefully, he removes each disc from its case and bends it between his hands until it snaps. He drops the pieces on top of the trash and leaves the entire can outside in the hallway next to his comforter. He can't stand looking at any of it.

That task accomplished, he pours himself a scotch. Downs it with one long swallow. Pours another. He has it halfway to his lips when he remembers. Determinedly, he makes his way to his closet.

There on the top shelf sits a royal blue gift box. She had given it to him a scant few weeks ago. 'Just because,' her exact words. He'd agonized for hours over the significance of that phrase, and the present itself without reaching any definitive conclusions.

He pulls the box down and lifts the lid. There nestled amongst the tissue paper is a patchwork silk scarf. He hasn't worn it at all because the colors make it hard to pair with his other ensembles. Red and burgundy, white and cream, black and blue. It doesn't go with _anything_, and clashes with _everything_, including itself. Had that been what she had been trying to tell him by giving him this? That he doesn't belong with anyone?

Well fuck _her_ and her _gift_!!!

He wrenches the door to his suite open and is about to throw the scarf into the hall as well, but stops short of actually letting it go. No, he thinks. He'll keep it. Furthermore, he is damn well going to _wear_ it. It is going to become his signature. He'll show it off like a declaration of war around his neck at every turn. A constant reminder to himself that Blair Waldorf is going to rue the day she thought she could forget about Chuck Bass!

He slams the door and goes into the bathroom. He drapes the scarf over his shoulders and looks into the mirror to judge the effect. Those calculating eyes are not his. They belong on another face. The one he sees in his worst nightmares. _Her_ face. Not his. But there they are, just the same, staring coldly back at him with a strange sense of inevitability. The reflection smiles, Georgina's cruel twist of lips, slow and serpentine.

"_You're just like me now, Chucky_."

He adjusts the fall of silk over his chest and sneers into the mirror.

So be it then.


	17. Chapter 17

_Drowning deep in my sea of loathing_

_Broken, your servant, I kneel_

_Will you give it to me?_

_It seems what's left of my human side_

_Is slowing changing in me_

_Will you give it to me?_

_Looking at my own reflection_

_When suddenly it changes_

_Violently it changes_

_Oh no, there is no turning back now_

_You've woken up the demon in me_

-Disturbed-

The second he enters the bar, she knows. She can tell by the way a shiver of anticipation runs up her spine. She turns, looking coyly over at the entrance, and there he is silhouetted in the doorway. _Finally_, she thinks. She had only left so that he could give chase, and she does not appreciate being kept waiting for anything longer than necessary. It does not go with the plan.

He gulps at seeing her, and she smiles shyly, encouraging. He draws a breath as he threads his way between the tables to reach her. Licking his lips nervously, he steels himself to speak to her. She raises her head, hoping he'll take the hint and make a move, but he rakes his hand through his hair instead, searching for words. Then he opens his mouth to say something, and a hand clamps down upon his shoulder from behind.

"Trust me. She's _not_ your type."

Georgina turns her head in annoyance at the intrusion, but breaks into a laugh as she sees the figure standing over her. "Chuck Bass. Long time no see."

He ignores her comment, glaring daggers instead at the blonde Adonis. The lifeguard wannabe wilts under the force of that gaze until he slouches away like a scolded child. She watches his perfect ass retreat in disbelief.

How pathetic.

Probably shit in bed too, she thinks with a scowl. Still, she does not brook any interference lightly. It had taken her the better part of the day to manipulate the Baywatch extra into thinking _he_ was the one pursuing _her_. "Bad form, Chucky," she sneers. "You cock blocked me."

"Oops," he smiles, sliding into the seat opposite hers. The bastard is entirely too pleased with himself.

"Well now that you've ruined my evening, to what do I owe the displeasure?" she asks.

"I wanted to talk to you."

She narrows her eyes suspiciously. "Really? You came all this way to _talk_? I have a phone, you know."

"I don't have your number," he answers smoothly.

Rolling her eyes at his feeble excuse, she snorts, "Please! It's the same as it always was which I'm sure the P.I. you have on speed dial told you after you paid him to track me down. So let's dispense with the bullshit, shall we? Why are you _really_ here?"

A shadow passes behind his eyes, so quickly most people would miss it entirely. She is not one of them. She thrives on little displays of weakness others are never supposed to see.

"Like I said. We need to talk," he sneers, his face once again under rigid control, but too, _too_ late.

She cocks a brow, scheming already despite not having all the information. "And what could possibly be so important that it merits a face to face meeting?" she inquires in mock disinterest. "We haven't spoken in forever, as per your wishes, and Australia _is_ a rather long way to come to reminisce about old times, don't you think?"

"I was in the neighborhood," he deadpans.

The corner of her mouth twitches in amusement. "Right. Because what's an ocean or two when you own a private jet?"

"Exactly." His lips twist into an expression of smugness that Georgina finds delightfully entertaining.

"Oh _Chucky_! I've missed you," she laughs.

"Funny. I never miss you," he smirks. So confident. Perhaps he doesn't quite remember who he's dealing with. A reminder is in order.

She lifts her foot under the table, brushing against his inner calf purposely. With satisfaction, she sees his arrogant expression fade just a bit before he scoots his chair out of reach. Years later, and all is as it should be. He's still a little afraid of her.

So endearing.

And totally something else she can use to her advantage.

"Well if you want to chat, I suggest you don't order a drink," she says, draining her martini and popping the olive into her mouth.

"Excuse me?"

"Since you chased off my prospect, I'm going back to my room." Tossing a bill onto the table, she turns from his guarded stare. Pausing to glance over her shoulder, she winks at him suggestively. "You're welcome to _join_ me." Then, without further ado, she struts away with an exaggerated swing of hips. He'll follow. She knows he will.

Foolish boy.

Through the lobby and the elevator ride to her floor, she ignores his attempts to stop her and restart the conversation. Only once they are behind the door of her hotel room does she allow herself to acknowledge his presence and speak to him.

"So, let's catch up. How have you been?" she says cheerily, knowing it will annoy him that she is starting with mundane pleasantries rather than the real reason for his visit.

"_Fine_," he says. For the second time tonight, something flickers behind his eyes.

"You never could lie to me, Chucky. Glad to see some things don't change," she teases before running her gaze over him appraisingly. "Although it seems other things have definitely done so for the better." She traces the buttons up his expensive shirt and reaches to finger the silk scarf he is wearing. "You've filled out quite a bit nicer than expected for instance."

He jerks her hand away from the checkered fabric around his throat. "Touch me again, I break your hand."

"Break my hand, our ceasefire's over." She steps forward, invading his space, and pressing against him. "But go right ahead. You and I? We're inevitable, Bass."

He leans down, lips hovering over hers. "I wouldn't want you if you were the last _cunt_ on Earth," he whispers. Then callously, he shoves her away. Georgina stumbles backward, catching herself on the bed.

"I love it when you talk dirty," she laughs. He glares at her, and meeting his angry gaze with a vicious smile, she slides one strap of her dress off her shoulder.

"What are you doing?" Chuck exclaims in alarm.

At that note of distress, she fingers the other silken strap. "Whatever the hell I want." With that, she releases it, and the gown slithers to the floor leaving her standing there in nothing but a bustier and a wisp of a lace. "Now what was it you wanted to talk about?" she says sweetly, as he tries to look anywhere but at her.

He swallows visibly and meets her mocking expression. He is trying so hard to keep his eyes on her face, it's precious. But it will be a losing battle. She knows exactly how the lingerie appears on her, and how very sheer it is, and however much he resists, he is still nothing but a hormonal teenage boy, and the flesh is weak ladies and gents. So very _weak_.

"Put some fucking clothes back on," he snaps.

"I don't think so. My room. My rules," she points out as she kicks off her shoes.

"Then we're not having this conversation right now," he states, an uncomfortable blush rising above his collar.

"Suit yourself," she shrugs. She turns her back on him and bends over, deliberately slow, reaching into the toe of one of her Prada heels. "But next time I'll make sure I'm wearing even less."

He makes an exasperated sound and falls into the chair by the window. Grinning at the small triumph, she stands, holding a plastic baggie between two fingers. She shakes it in his direction.

"Do you have to do that now?" he grinds out. "I'd like to get this over and done with."

"Well, I don't _have_ to, but I'm going to anyway," she smiles, pulling a book from the nightstand and tapping a line of powder onto it. "Want some?" Before he can respond, she pours a second hit onto the book with a wicked look his way. She extends her hand out to him expectantly.

He simply looks at her for a long moment. Then, muttering a curse, he reaches into his suit jacket to pull a crisp hundred dollar bill out of his wallet. He rolls it into a tight cylinder with experienced fingers and sets it in her waiting palm. Gracefully, she snorts one of the white lines up before offering the book and the tube to him, a challenge in her glacial eyes.

Glowering at her, Chuck snatches the proffered items. He raises the rolled bill to his nostril before blinking in surprise at the title of the book before him. "We're doing cocaine off of the _Bible_?" he says incredulous.

Georgina smirks. "It brings you closer to God."

Shaking his head at the audacity, Chuck bends over his line and breathes in. A second later, he stands, reeling slightly from the sudden high. He smiles like he always does in that first rush of exhilaration, and the sight causes things low on her belly to tighten.

"So," Georgina says casually, "Now that that's taken care of, what did you come here to say?"

The smile on his face fades. "I wanted…" he begins, but his voice trails away. He swallows and then meets her inquisitive stare. "I wanted to ask you a favor."

"What kind of favor?" she responds, intrigued despite herself.

"You once said that you had _feelings_, you just didn't _care_," he says cautiously. Pausing, he licks his lips, looks away. Finally, he blurts out, "Teach me."

She purses her lips in disbelief. She must have heard him incorrectly. "Teach you?" she repeats.

"Yeah, teach me," he states again. "Teach me not to _care_."

He glances quickly at her face to gauge her reaction, and that is all Georgina needs to breach his carefully maintained defenses and read his innermost thoughts. The boy has been crushed, his emotions ravaged, his soul shattered. He's _hurting_, although he has everyone, including himself most likely, convinced he is _fine_. He isn't. He wouldn't be here asking for her help if he was.

Poor little heartbroken Chuck Bass.

So adorable really.

She wonders briefly if he is even aware of the depth of his true feelings, or the full ramifications of what he is asking her to do. Not that it actually matters, she decides. She will help him just the same. _Help_ and _hurt_ are synonymous, aren't they?

In this case, she is fairly positive they are.

"So let me see if I understand you correctly," Georgina drawls lazily as if she hasn't figured out what he wants and how she is going to use that information. "You want me to teach you how to turn off your emotions, to not care?"

"Precisely," he nods.

"Okay, and what's in it for me?" she asks. The question is routine, obligatory. She already knows exactly what is in it for her.

Thinking he is still in control of the situation, Chuck replies, "What do you want?"

She smiles at his mistake in asking that. "The question is, Bass, what are you willing to give?"

He opens his mouth to speak, but she shushes him. "Don't answer yet," she urges, preparing to offer him in words everything he secretly wishes to hear. "Think first. Think how much you want this. What would your life be like if you could switch all these stupid feelings off? What could you do if you were freed from pain, suffering? If you truly didn't give a shit what anyone thought? What would that be worth to you?"

She looks intently into his shadowed eyes. His guard is slipping, exactly as she intended. Grief radiates from him in waves. Someone has really done a number on him, she thinks. Quite decisively too. He's practically bleeding betrayal all over the carpet.

Excellent.

"Anything," he finally replies. A world of anguish in that one word. "I'd give anything."

She smirks at the opening he has so candidly presented her. He, more than anyone, should know better than to give her such an opportunity. Time, or pain, has made him sloppy, has allowed him to hand over the very weapon she'll use against him. Desperate people are so easy to coerce.

"Okay then," she smirks. "One night, and you've got a deal."

He tenses, instantly wary. "One night?"

"Yes, one night," she repeats condescendingly. "One night with _you_."

His brow furrows. "What exactly are you suggesting?"

"I think you know," she leers. To further drive the point home, she runs a hand down her inner thigh in a long caress.

Comprehension dawns in his dark eyes. His lips draw back in a grimace. "You aren't serious," he scoffs. Then seeing her sadistic expression, he adds disgusted, "No! No, _never_. Fuck you."

She sits down upon the bed, crossing her legs. "You sure? It's only _one_ night, Chucky."

"Absolutely not. I'd rather die," he spits.

"Fine," she shrugs, acting like she doesn't really care, like she isn't the master who had created him in the first place, like he isn't even now being manipulated right into position. Offhandedly, she sighs, "Who was it, by the way?"

The question catches him unawares, just as she had known it would. "Who was _who_?" he snaps.

"The girl. The one who hurt you," she explains innocently. "It was a girl, yes? You didn't switch teams in the middle of an inning or anything, right?"

He snorts, not even deigning to dignify her with an answer.

Amused, Georgina continues, "So who was she? Anyone I know?" She watches his jaw tighten before he looks away. Obviously someone familiar then, and if she knows him at all… "Blair Waldorf, perhaps?"

His spine immediately stiffens. "Shut up," he mumbles, his voice deadly calm.

Bingo.

"Really, Chucky? Blair Wal – " she taunts.

"Don't say – "

She cuts him off, with a derisive snicker. "You're actually _mooning_ over goddamned Blair W – "

"Don't say that name!" he hisses through clenched teeth.

Almost there.

"Blai – "

Chuck explodes. "DON'T SAY THAT _FUCKING_ NAME!!!" he shouts, turning murderous hate filled eyes on her.

"One night, and you _never_ have to feel like you do right now ever again," she propositions unexpectedly.

He reels back from her words, but the damage is done. Her words have gotten through. "You're a bitch!" he declares stunned.

"And you're a bastard, but that still doesn't change the offer," she retorts. "Have sex with me, and all this ends. The misery? The rejection? The jealousy? All gone, poof, made as if they never were."

"Get away from me," he snarls. His face is a mask of revulsion, but she knows somewhere in his mind, he is considering it. If he wasn't, he would leave, like he should have done the first time she brought it up. All she has to do is give him enough time, and he'll talk himself into it. The males of the species are so incredibly predictable that way. They're weak willed.

And one thing will help weaken his faster.

"I'm thirsty," Georgina announces abruptly. She resists the impulse to laugh as Chuck frowns in puzzlement over the sudden change in tactics. Years after their first encounter, and he's _still _one step behind her.

Typical.

"Do you want a drink?" she offers. Without bothering to wait for his response, she squats in front of the mini-bar. Thankfully, it had been restocked earlier today. Pulling out the little bottles of liquor, she lines them up on the dresser. "Help yourself, _dear_."

He exhales, sickened at the term of endearment, but grabs a few of the miniature bottles. He drains them hastily and with trepidation, picks up another. This one, the last scotch, he sips as he stares at the floor. Occasionally, he glances up at her before looking guiltily away. Georgina pretends not to notice, and wisely says nothing. Instead, she drinks a couple bottles of tequila and tries not to allow her satisfaction at _him_ convincing _himself_ to do the unthinkable show. The silence stretches out between them. Finally, he speaks.

"Show me, and you can have one night _afterwards_."

She shakes her head. "No deal. Not interested."

"Why? This way we both get what we want. Unless you're afraid I'll renege on the agreement." He tosses it out like a dare.

Could he be more precious?

"I don't think you would back out at all," she says honestly. "I just don't want you to be able to divorce yourself from it when it happens. I want you to _feel_ it all. The hatred. The horror. Everything."

His expression darkens in rage. "You psychotic bitch," he growls.

Gleeful, she mocks his show of temper. "That's right, Chucky. Get angry. It'll be easier if you are."

He scowls. "You say that like you know."

"Perhaps I do," she scoffs, looking away. Her mouth is inexplicably dry. She wets her parched lips, and then continues in a stronger voice. "But more importantly, that's how it's _done_. That's the secret lesson. You don't want to feel anymore? Do _this_, and you _won't_. That I can promise."

Unexpectedly, she finds herself touching his shoulder with something akin to tenderness. It's a strange gesture coming from her and they both know it. Their eyes meet, sharing a moment of perfect clarity. Words aren't needed, but he says them anyway.

"If I do this, I really will be just like you."

"Yes," she breathes. "But isn't that what you came here for?"

He shudders at the truth of her statement, as the fury recedes in him. A sob escapes his throat and he collapses in upon his self. She thinks perhaps he won't make the choice she did, won't take that final step into damnation. But then, with lightning harshness, he grabs her, wrenches her face down to his. He presses their mouths together in a kiss of utter loathing. His tongue invades through her parted lips and he tastes like scotch and smoke and bitterest despair. She cups his face to steady them, and under her hand his cheek is wet with tears. He's crying, even as he kills all that's left of his humanity.

His outstretched palm forces her onto her back as she reaches out to caress him through his trousers. He jerks her hands away, fingers digging cruelly into her wrists. "Don't touch me," he sneers against her skin as he bites at her lips, her jaw line, her neck. He rips savagely at her panties, literally tearing the lace to get them off. Grabbing her thighs roughly, he pulls her to the edge of the bed, forcing her knees apart.

He has been nothing but brutal with her, but Georgina finds his very violence exciting. She's wet and ready. She watches with heavy-lidded eyes as he unzips his fly, freeing his dick from the tight constraint of her trousers. The sight catches her breath in her throat. He's hard and so much larger than she remembered.

Without bothering to tug his pants down, he leans over her, tossing her legs upon his shoulders. The head of his cock brushes against her as he poises to enter her. She throws her head back in pleasure and arches up to receive him. "Take me," she moans just as his hips surge forward.

The husky sound of her aroused voice jolts him from frenzy to awareness, stopping his determined thrust right before he presses against her entrance. He blinks down at her in confusion, that first blinding rush gone. It's like he's seeing her beneath him for the first time. His eyes widen slightly as he realizes what he'd been about to do.

"Oh God," Chuck gasps. He pulls away, backing up so quickly he almost falls over. "Oh _God_." He collides with the dresser, stumbling to the ground. Scrambling with hands and feet, he manages to crabwalk until he's molded against the wall. "Oh God," he cries again amidst rapid wheezing breaths. Frantically, he's trying to shove himself back into his pants, but his hands are trembling so badly, he isn't having much success. Tears are running unchecked and unnoticed down his cheeks as he hyperventilates. "Oh God." His voice sounds so very young.

From the bed, Georgina watches with sick fascination. She slides from the bed and pads over to him, surprised when he doesn't react. She kneels by him and leans forward, intimidating with her proximity. Still no reaction. His hands, however, keep fumbling with his trousers, so she grips them, halting the movement. He doesn't even look up.

"Oh God," he whispers, a quiet plea from his now frozen form.

Curious, she peers into his face. His eyes stare unfocused and empty. He isn't there. His body may be here, but no one is home. His mind is somewhere else, and his autopilot seems to be stuck, repeating the last few seconds over and over like a skipping record.

"Oh God."

Well fuck! This isn't even _worth_ it, she thinks. At least as a child, he'd tried to get away but this _thing_ before her now just sits there immobile, watching her approach without so much as a flinch. What is the point if he doesn't _struggle_? There is no _fun_ in tormenting a defenseless victim. It's entirely too easy, and she can't even take full credit for the state he's in now as it is as much his fault as hers.

Goddamn it.

With a sound of disgust, she saunters over to pick up her discarded dress. Slipping it over her head, she rolls her eyes at this failure of an evening. The whole thing has been a huge waste of time.

Pissed, she stoops in front of him again. "Chuck?" she says. She grabs his shoulder and shakes him. "Chuck?" Finally, she draws her arm back and belts him across the face, his head snapping to the side and staying there. He doesn't move. His breathing doesn't change. But there is a subtle difference in his eyes. A thread of recognition. Not much, but enough.

"I'll be back in twenty minutes. Don't still be here," she calls out with a sneer behind her as she stands and stalks over to the door. She opens it and steps out into the hall. She risks one glance back into the room at the broken boy on the floor, the fabled prodigal son. The anguish on his face is so raw, the loss of self so palpable.

Pitiful.

Such a disappointment.

"Goodbye Chucky."


	18. Chapter 18

_Empty spaces fill me up with holes_

_Distant faces with no place left to go_

_Without you within me, I can find no rest_

_Where I'm going is anybody's guess_

_I tried to go on like I never knew you_

_I'm awake but my world is half asleep_

_I pray for this heart to be unbroken_

_But without you all I'm going to be is incomplete_

-Backstreet Boys-

Manhattan is beautiful at night, he thinks. From the helipad atop the Palace Hotel, he surveys the splendor of the Upper East Side. He comes here often to be alone, to think. On the roof, above everything, he feels free.

He likes standing in the gentle breeze and the cool evening air as he takes in the view. It is breathtaking, but tonight as on so many other nights, he wishes that the glittering lights would dim so that he could actually see the sky. Somewhere up above him, there are stars, but he hasn't ever seen them here. Not in New York. The dazzling lights of the city that never sleeps blot them out.

He remembers, as a little boy, not understanding the song "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star." He'd never seen stars outside of a book, and preserved on paper they didn't seem that impressive. When he'd finally seen them in real life during a visit to his uncle, he had been awed. Stars _did_ twinkle, sparkling like glass shards caught in the sun. And there were so many! Thousands upon thousands of stars, each like a diamond illuminating the night sky, and all made for wishing.

Such a pity he can't see them right now. He could use a wish. He'd very much like to ask for advice.

Chuck Bass is a consummate actor. He has the entirety of his social circle convinced he is the ultimate rule breaker, the boy who always bucks authority and never follows the crowd. In reality, he isn't. It is just that a different set of rules govern his world. Different laws dictate his behavior. His actions may appear random, full of impulsiveness and risk, but they aren't.

It's all a carefully constructed illusion.

He is a planner. He knows what parties and events he is attending on any given night. He knows approximately who he will see there, and what he will talk about in advance. He knows around what time he will leave with a girl. Exactly who the girl will be is left up to chance, but he has a preference for brunettes and will swing that if he can. He'll fuck her once, and if he is feeling particularly generous, he'll let her stay the night. He'll take a shower before bed and fall asleep in his silk pajamas. More often than not, he'll awake from dreams of Blair and Georgina and not be able to return to sleep, although he will try. When he finally gets up, he'll have a smoothie with a little extra kick to start the day. Sometime before lunch, he'll smoke some marijuana and the rest of the afternoon will pass in a haze until the evening when the whole process begins afresh.

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

When he graduates, he'll get into every college he applies to because he is Chuck Bass. When he turns twenty-one, he is entitled to his trust fund. Later, maybe a house in the Hamptons, or a prescription drug problem. This is his life, every bit as premeditated as Blair Waldorf's. But while she meticulously hashes out every last detail of her future, Chuck sketches his in more broad strokes because he knows happiness is not on the menu. The slightest variations from day to day are the only things that make his existence livable.

Still, he doesn't resent the monotony. Rather, he thrives under the routine. Knowing in advance what is going to happen makes life easy, comfortable. He finds solace in the structure. It is only when things deviate too far from his intended plan that he gets upset, makes mistakes, poor judgments. Being without the plan is like being naked, and for all his womanizing ways, Chuck Bass does not like to be naked. It makes him feel vulnerable, exposed, like that night years ago with Georgina when he had so desperately wanted to cover himself and yet hadn't been able to. So now clothes are his form of defense. Modern day armor. Hence the jackets, the vests, the bowties, the ascots, the expensive shirts with upturned collars so that even that small expanse of skin at the back of his neck is protected. The more clothes, the more security. To him, wearing the appropriate attire is just another aspect of his life's routine, and both the apparel and the predictability make him feel safe.

But he isn't feeling safe at the moment, and all the clothes in the world won't help.

Two weeks ago his perfectly ordered world was turned upside down and he'd had no clue what it meant or what he was supposed to do. He'd had to _improvise_, and that scared him shitless and yet exhilarated him at the same time. He'd never felt more alive. Terrified, but _alive_.

He should have known it wouldn't end well.

It all started with that dance, that goddamned dance that meant everything, and yet nothing at all. Those three fucking minutes had left him looking forward to watching a ridiculous movie with a frigid bitch and inexplicably hoping for something he should not have even been thinking about and would never admit to now. Then, she hadn't even shown up. She'd fled the country! Even worse, she'd spent that Thursday evening, _their_ Thursday evening, watching _their_ blasted movie with Nathaniel before she left, a detail he has no doubt she intended for him to discover.

Bitch.

And for reasons he couldn't fathom then, and _really_ can't fathom now, he'd gotten it into his head to seek out Georgina Sparks. To ask for her help! Imagine that. _Help_ from evil incarnate? What had he been thinking? He must have been out of his damned mind! That's what Blair and her games had reduced him to, a crazed lunatic who sought aid from the worst demon imaginable. And of course the hell spawn had offered him the escape he wanted… for an unspeakable price.

With both hands gripping the concrete ledge, Chuck shudders at memory. He isn't sure which is more horrific: that she thought up such a trade in the first place, or that he had agreed to it? Probably the latter, he suspects. He'd wanted to become an unfeeling monster after all, while she had merely been obliging his wish, even if the sadistic whore got off on it. Ironic then that the only thing that had spared him was _her_, the sound she had made right before he –

No. He is not thinking about _that_. Bad enough that every time he closes his eyes now, the image of her spread out beneath him, wet and ready and willing, seems permanently imprinted on his retinas. He doesn't need any more reminders, thank you very much. He'll be haunted by the thought plenty enough without actively remembering the way she –

Oh God, he's going to be sick.

He falls to his knees, ruining his Armani trousers in the process, as bile rises fast and furious in his throat. He heaves, vomiting a small puddle of acidic fluid since he hasn't eaten in days. Afterwards, he takes several deep breaths, praying the nausea subsides long enough for him to make it back to his suite.

Once there, he immediately strips and gets into the shower. Although the warmth of the falling water eases some of the tension in his shoulders, no amount of soap can banish entirely the vague sense of being unclean that developed shortly after he left Australia. He scrubs until he is red and raw and wincing, and _still_ the ghostly feeling lingers, like strange hands touching his skin. In desperation, he twists the hot water knob as far as it will go, hissing through his teeth as the spray turns scalding, but appreciative of the distraction the pain provides. He'd freely walk through fire and shove his hand into a blender for some lasting _clarity_.

Initially, he believed nothing could feel as awful as realizing Blair had ran from whatever their relationship had been. Now, he knows how naive that thought actually was. The knowledge that he had nearly slept with the slut who starred in his nightmares of his own volition was much, much worse. It defied logic. He wants to laugh at the absurdity of it, and he would if it was the least bit funny, but of course it is not. No, it is _horrific_.

It makes no fucking sense. None at all. Right is left, up is down, and Chuck Bass had almost…

He can't even finish the thought. It's too ludicrous. And yet it was true. Unequivocally true. Facts were facts, even if the pieces didn't add up.

And therein lay the problem. The pieces _did_ add up, just _not_ how they should have.

There is no way he could have been so _stupid._ He is _Chuck_ _Bass_!

And yet…

Oh damn it all to hell.

He gets out of the shower and towels off. He tries to avoid seeing his reflection. It disturbs him. Those haunted features are entirely his, and yet he thinks he resembles a child in the mirror. He feels like one too. A kid, lost and alone and eager to be loved, seeking comfort and assurance that the monsters aren't real, even though that's a lie. Chuck _knows_ the monsters exist. He's _seen_ them, wonders secretly if he _is_ one. After all, he certainly doesn't feel like himself at the moment. The old him would never, ever under any circumstances even have considered having sex with Georgina. The fact that he had done more than _consider_ it frightens him immensely. It is like the core of his identity is missing, those defining characteristics of his personality erased.

Thank God for routine, he thinks. He may not know who he is anymore, but he can easily fake it until he figures it out. Fall into patterns of familiarity and surely that sense of self will return, right? If not, well… He will deal with that if it happens. For now, he is going out and finding a girl to fuck because that is what Chuck Bass would do.

That summer, he beds more chicks in a couple _months_ than most men do in their _lives_. Two, three a day. Frequently more. A ceaseless parade of warm, willing bodies, and each kiss and caress only makes him feel more and more lost. Every release leaves him numb and hollow instead of satisfied. He doesn't understand why it isn't _working_.

He turns to his other habits, booze and drugs, the old standbys. Pill and powder, liquid and lungful, he tries it all. Sometimes in the midst of a high, he can sense some emotion percolating just out of proper awareness, but the impression is never sustained long. The highs are over too soon, leaving him feeling as empty as before.

The cycle of wanton women and substance abuse continues under finally, near the end of August, his cell beeps. It is a message from Gossip Girl alerting all of the Upper East Side that a certain Queen B has at last returned from Italy. Reading the text, feelings long dormant inside of Chuck flutter back to life.

He phones Arthur to bring the limo around and is almost on the curb in front of the hotel before he realizes he'd been planning to go to her house. Scowling, already trying to suppress the wellspring of emotion that appeared when he learned she was back, to kill it outright, he reminds himself that he has no desire to see Blair Waldorf. She is a bitch and he is not going to visit her at all. He… he is going to the Hamptons!

Most of the last week of summer he spends holed up in one of the Bass vacation homes. Surrounded by verdant lawns and luxury, he feels miserable. Every time his phone chimes, he practically falls over in his haste to see if there is an update on Blair, but after the initial message, Gossip Girl has no further rumors to report.

Useless whore.

The Thursday before school starts up again, he returns to Manhattan. He is sitting in his suite, sipping scotch and begrudgingly thinking about the logistics of arranging a _chance_ run-in with a specific chestnut haired beauty when someone knocks on his door. He opens it and finds himself looking at the girl in question.

She's here!

Instantly, his stomach starts fluttering despite his best efforts to quell the enthusiastic response.

"What do you want, Waldorf?" he sneers. She ignores his cold greeting and whisks right past him into the suite. "Hey! I didn't say you could come in!" he shouts after her.

Blair tosses him a challenging look over one shoulder. "I'm pretty sure you did, right after you asked about my summer and I told you it was great," she teases. Then with a swish of skirts, she rounds the corner into the main room and Chuck has no choice but to follow her.

He finds her already seated on the sofa, legs crossed daintily, with an expectant smile on her face. He glowers down at her. "Why are you here?"

In response, she extends an envelope. His name is written in elegant calligraphy across the top of it. "What is this?" he asks.

"My mother and I are having some people over for a party on Saturday. I thought you might want to come," she remarks offhandedly, shrugging like she doesn't care if he attends or not.

"Saturday? Kind of late to RSVP, isn't it princess? Or am I a last minute addition because someone else cancelled?"

Standing, she rolls her eyes at him. "No one cancels on a Waldorf soiree, Bass! You just weren't home when I tried to drop the invite off last week."

"You could have left it at the front desk," he points out sardonically. "Or did you want to see me so badly you needed an excuse to come back?"

"I didn't need an excuse!" she cries.

He smirks triumphantly. "So you _did_ want to see me."

Seeing his smugness at having maneuvered her into making such an admission, Blair compresses her lips into a thin white line. "Clever, Chuck. You don't get nearly enough credit for your wit," she says finally. "But why shouldn't I want to see you? We're friends, after all."

"Friends?" he snorts bitterly. "Is that why you ran off to Milan? Because we're _friends_?"

"That had nothing to do with you!" she denies hotly. "I just wanted to spend time with my mother."

"Right," he mocks, his words coated in sarcasm. "Because you and Eleanor have such a _close_ bond."

Her eyes flash. "Don't you talk about my mother or –"

"Or what?" he interjects, cutting her off. "You'll leave? Go right ahead! Please, do! Spare me the trouble of having to call security to throw you out!"

Her mouth drops in stunned indignation. "I… I hate you!" she spits.

"The feeling's mutual!" he bites back.

"Really?" she asks unexpectedly, her voice small. The second the word leaves her mouth, she looks shocked to have said it.

Confused at her dismayed expression, Chuck replies insolently, "Why does it matter?"

She blinks, her face transforming back into a composed mask. "It… It doesn't," she states, but the tone lacks her usual conviction and that brief look in her eyes had almost seemed… _hurt_.

What the hell?

Before he can respond, she whirls suddenly, practically _running_ down his hallway. And without even understanding why, he chases after her. In a few long strides, he reaches her, grabs her shoulder turning her around. She resists, striking out as he tries to prevent her reaching the door. Her tiny fists rain blows upon him as they struggle. Finally, he captures one of her arms by the wrist and pulls her flush against him, pinning her other hand between them.

"What the _fuck_ was that, Waldorf?" he cries.

Blair says nothing, refusing to look at him or even acknowledge he has spoken. She's panting for breath, an embarrassed flush deepening the color of her cheeks.

Chuck narrows his eyes at her, a thought gradually taking form. "Do you not _want_ me to hate you?" he inquires carefully.

"Why would I care?" she scoffs, meeting his eyes at last. "I have a boyfriend."

"Why would you care indeed?" he repeats quietly.

"I don't," she reiterates. "I love Nate."

"You sure?" he asks, searching her face.

She swallows, diverting her gaze for a brief second. "Of course," she finally says.

"You sound uncertain."

Her breath catches in her throat. "You're delusional," she manages to state.

"Am I?" he counters, feeling absolutely positive he is not misreading her. After all, his grip on her has loosened, his hands merely resting now upon her skin, and yet still she stays in the circle of his arms. Beneath his palms, her pulse seems to be racing as much as his own.

Unable to control the impulse, he traces a finger up her spine. She shivers, her eyes drifting shut as she arches into him. He gasps at her movement, his groin hardening in response. And rather than pull away disgusted, she presses closer, manicured nails kneading at his chest catlike, ruby lips parting in an almost inaudible sigh.

Without conscious thought, almost of its own accord, the hand holding her wrist lets go to wrap around her waist, fingers stretching across the small of her back and that first gentle curve along the top of her ass.

"Chuck…" she moans softly, her body relaxing, muscles undulating, becoming liquid under his touch.

"Yes?" he whispers urgent, his mouth hovering over hers.

"I…" she breathes, opening her eyes, forbidden desire evident in her darkened pupils. She blinks, twisting her face away. "I love Nate."

The words land like an unanticipated punch. Abruptly he drops his arms and steps back from her, thrusting clenched fists into his pockets. "That so?" he grinds out viciously, jealousy and resentment radiating off of him. "Then I suggest you go seal the deal with your precious boyfriend before someone else does the honors for him." His lips twist into a nasty sneer. "You're nothing but a bitch in heat."

Her perfectly arched brows rise in outrage. "You nauseate me!" she snaps before storming off.

He watches her go and just as she opens the door, he calls out with taunting politeness, "See you at the soiree _princess_."

In the entranceway, she turns glaring. "You're officially uninvited!"

He condescendingly smirks. "Never stopped me before."


	19. Chapter 19

_It's just a secret glance across a room_

_A touch of hands that part too soon_

_That same old tune that always plays_

_And lets them dance as friends_

_Then stand apart as the music ends_

_Loving on the never, never_

-Willy Russell-

Chuck Bass cares about three things: money, the pleasures money brings, and Nathaniel.

Sometimes, however, he sort of cares about a fourth thing. He had distracted himself all summer, hoping he wouldn't feel it, but he still does when he's especially drunk, or high, or stoned, or… lately… _breathing._

Occasionally, he thinks that perhaps he always cares about this fourth thing, that maybe he needs to amend his list to add it permanently.

Like right now.

In frustration, Chuck combs his hands through his hair angrily trying to clear his head. The very idea is ludicrous, and insane, and totally unacceptable because if it is true, if that is how he really feels, he is _beyond_ fucked.

Thankfully, it isn't true. It can't be. But just to be safe, he should stay the hell away from her. After crashing her soiree, of course. He cannot miss that. She'd take it as an insult if he didn't show after she had uninvited him. She'd certainly already instructed her doormen to make a show of keeping him out, forcing him to double or even triple the usual bribe to get inside, and it would be the height of rudeness if he didn't reward her efforts because she could not actually deny him entrance outright and they both know it.

Chuck is the sole heir of Bass Industries, and even though his father had risen from the ranks of the middle classes to the upper echelon of Manhattan's elite, and the Bass fortune, therefore, is new money, no one could risk insulting a Bass. In a single generation, the Bass name had become too powerful and influential to be looked down upon. To do so would be tantamount to social suicide.

But ignoring Blair's attempts to keep him away and drawing attention to the fact her ministrations were merely pretense would also be a faux pas. A lesser snub, surely, but still one all the same, so despite his better judgment, he has to go.

He should not be so happy about that.

Within minutes of his arrival at the party, however, Chuck is regretting his decision. He is stuck on a couch, bored out of his mind, sandwiched between two of Blair's cohort and they are babbling at him, practically begging for another go with him even though he won't lower himself for a second round anyway because _once_ is, and always will be the rule. Still, they keep making advances at him, with decreasing amounts of tact. Pathetic really, especially since he is fairly positive their Queen B has forbidden them any additional fraternization of the naked variety with him. It is so hard to find obedient minions, he reflects as he sips his scotch.

Then things only get worse.

Blair drags Nate off with a flippant comment and a challenging look at Chuck that tells him exactly what she intends to do with her boyfriend. Somehow he keeps his expression bland, but as his insides start clenching, he fully understands for the first time exactly how much it will bother him if she actually does sleep with Nathaniel. Not that he cares who she fucks, so long as it isn't his friend, because if they ever do seal the deal, Chuck will have to _hear_ about it, and just imagining that prospect is seriously turning his stomach.

Plus, if they have sex, it will be such a waste! They have no spark. Nate and Blair are like a green twig and a soggy match. There is no chemistry between them. Chuck is certain of this because if there was, no way would they have been chaste this long. Blair has a fuse just waiting to be lit and when it happens, the results will be explosive. There'd be fireworks! Hell, she had practically combusted in _his_ arms, so he knows the passion in her is yearning to be unleashed. If Nathaniel did it for her at _all_, they would have been going at it like rabbits.

But they aren't. So obviously, Nate's touch doesn't make her skin sing and her back arch. Not like Chuck's had. If only…

Fuck!

It doesn't matter anyway. The perfect couple is already in that room alone together and although he doesn't want to think about it at all, he can't help but envision them kissing, caressing, removing each other's clothes…

The mental visual is making him sick, and for some horrible reason, he is unable to concentrate on anything else! He barely even registers when Blair's lackeys start yammering about some message from Gossip Girl concerning Serena being spotted in Grand Central Station. Not until the blonde herself appears at the party amidst exclaims of "Serena! Serena!" does he completely realize what the cronies had been excited about.

Then the door behind which Nate and Blair had disappeared opens and Nathaniel reappears, looking decidedly un-disheveled, which means he hadn't gotten laid after all! Chuck breaths a giddy sigh of relief, but does not miss catching the way his friend's face lights up when he spots Serena. It is only upon seeing that unguarded look that Chuck finally grasps why Nate had cheated on Blair with Serena in the first place. He hadn't slept with her because he _could_. He had done it because he _cared_ about her. And from that smile, he cares about her still!

And Chuck can use that; _will_ use that because it has become suddenly imperative for a certain couple to break up. Nate and Blair cannot have sex because Chuck isn't sure he could withstand that. There is only so much physical illness one can endure before dying, right? It's a matter of survival, him or them, and right now he is going to be a selfish bastard and do what is in his own best interest, and at the moment what is best for him is the end of them!

His opportunity comes along with surprising ease too. A scant week later, at his father's annual foundation brunch, Chuck witnesses Nate surreptitiously nod towards the hallway at Serena, indicating like in every movie ever made that he wants to talk to her without being seen.

Amateur.

Following at a careful distance after glaring at the Brooklyn-ite trash the blonde had brought with her, Chuck overhears his friend tell Serena to meet him in a few minutes in suite 1812. With a triumphant smirk, Chuck immediately hones in on Blair, handing over the _other_ key to suite 1812 and telling her she knows what she has to do to ensure her future happiness with Nate.

It all works according to plan. Blair takes Nate up to Chuck's suite to consummate their relationship and finds Serena already waiting. A fight ensues, and even spills down into the main reception area so Chuck can watch. The only thing that doesn't work out quite right is that for reasons he can't fathom, Blair and Nathaniel don't break up. Thankfully, however, the ordeal does drive a wedge between them and all likelihood of them fornicating in the foreseeable future is put on hold indefinitely.

After that averted disaster, Chuck decides to avoid Blair for a while. He needs space, time to think, to refocus and not lose perspective of who he is and what they are and can never be. He probably would have succeeded too except that _she_ calls _him_! Asks for his help, invites him over to her house, into her room, the sacrosanct space where he had never been even when they had been friends as kids, and he can't refuse such an occasion!

Then he keeps coming up with excuses to talk to her. He even starts letting slip some rather transparent, less than suave, and totally unsmooth lines, like "If I was your man, I wouldn't need clues to find you." _If he was her man_? He cringes at the implication of attachment those words contain. How much more _obvious_ can he get? Why doesn't he just tattoo her name across his forehead or shout how much he loves her in front of the entire damn school?

Wait a minute!

Had he just put _Blair_ and _love_ in the same thought?

This cannot be happening. Certainly he doesn't _love_ Blair. 'Love' was way too strong a word. It was closer to 'like' than 'love.' He _likes_ Blair. Sometimes. Maybe. Depending on how one defines 'like,' of course. Not 'like' as in 'let's spend the entire summer in Tuscany together.' It was more of an 'I must be mad, I'm surprised and ashamed, and this is just pathetic' kind of 'like.'

Even if Blair _did_ seem to enjoy summers in Italy…

Oh God, what the _hell_ is he thinking?!?

First off, Blair doesn't _like_ him. Not like that. Whatever attraction her body may have for him, her brain knows better, and his should too! She has made that fact abundantly clear. Furthermore, she claims to love Nate, or at least the idea of Nate, so what does it matter to Chuck who she falls on her back for so long as he doesn't have to know about it.

Which brings him to his second point.

He absolutely _cannot_ like her because to do so is foolhardy. Nothing can come of it. Ever! Even if she did like him, which she doesn't. Not that he cares.

Nate is his best friend and she is Nate's girlfriend, and thus obviously off-limits. But eventually when she is his ex-girlfriend, and they will break up if it is the last thing Chuck does, she will _still_ not be fair game. The guy code forbids it, and his best friend would not still be his best friend if he knew how much Chuck is beginning to resent that rule.

But all of animosity towards something he can never have pales in comparison to what flashes through him the night his limo door opens and Chuck expects to welcome Nathaniel to his first business venture, the burlesque club Victrola, and Blair climbs out alone instead.

"Where's Nate?" he asks.

She blinks at him, slightly dazed. "I think we just broke up."

Euphoria.


	20. Chapter 20

_I could lose my heart tonight_

_If you don't turn and walk away_

'_Cause the way I feel I might_

_Lose control and let you stay_

'_Cause I could take you in my arms_

_And never let go_

_I could fall in love with you_

-Selena-

She had broken up with Nate and come to him. He cannot quite wrap his mind around that. Why him? Why not Serena? They were on speaking terms again. Or that little blonde thing that was always by her side lately? What was her name? Jeanie? Jenny? Something like that. Or, hell, why not _Dorota_?

Anyone other than him!

It isn't like he has any skill with this sort of thing. He has no experience with relationships at all, and his father hasn't exactly been a good role model either with his revolving door women, so what does Blair expect him to do for her? Pat her back ineffectually and offer false words of sympathy?

Chuck supposes he could summon _something_ to say, but it wouldn't sound consoling at all. He is far too enthusiastic at the moment. So perhaps it is best to keep quiet for now.

Silently, he escorts her inside Victrola to his private table and pours them both flutes of Cristal. Before he can lift his own glass to his lips, however, she has already drained hers and is busy helping herself to a second.

That is disconcerting. Not because the champagne is ridiculously expensive, although it most certainly is, or that Blair drinking to get drunk is particularly unusual, because she, like everyone else in the Upper East Side, does on occasion. Alcohol overindulgence, after all, is as common as divorce here. But in _public_, Blair typically is a nurse one beverage all evening kind of girl. She only really imbibes in private with trusted friends, away from potential spies with pesky camera phones.

He thinks maybe she is in shock. Could she seriously not have seen this coming?

Wait a minute. Who is he kidding? This is Blair Waldorf, queen of denial. Obviously this would have caught her unawares! She had been together with Nathaniel forever, and would have just simply ignored all the indications that a 'happily-ever-after' between them was not to be. Shit, she had been probably been planning her wedding before she received her first Barbie Dream House, and her personal Prince Charming had surely become Nate as soon as they'd met at age five. How many times in the intervening years had she envisioned the heirloom Vanderbilt ring gracing her finger? Hundreds? Thousands? To have that dream shattered? Her life plan derailed? It _had_ to be bothering her, even if she isn't actually showing it.

She isn't showing anything, actually. Beside him, she seems _detached_ as she begins downing her second drink.

"Blair, are you – " he says, touching her shoulder, worry evident on his features.

She jerks away. "I don't want to talk about it," she snaps, effectively cutting him off, repeating her earlier declaration from before they had even made it inside past the velvet rope.

Well, at least that had elicited some kind of response from her. Should he keep pressing? Deliberately try to piss her off? He glances at her beside him, sees her staring straight ahead at the women shimmying onstage in crimson and black corsets. An _annoyed_ Waldorf had to be better than a _numb_ Waldorf, right?

"I know you don't want to talk about what happened, but – "

"Relief," she blurts out abruptly. "I feel relief." She still doesn't look at him, but keeps watching the burlesque performers as though transfixed. Her head is nodding slightly in time with the music. "You know," she continues, a hint of a smile curving her mouth as her eyes stay glued on the dancers, "I got moves."

"Really?" he snorts, sitting up. She really couldn't have given him a better opportunity to goad her into fury. "Then why don't you get up there?"

She laughs. "I'm just saying, I have moves."

"Come on," he prods, nudging her. "You're ten times hotter than any of those girls."

She finally tears her gaze from the stage to glare at him briefly. "I know what you're doing, Bass," she sighs, turning away from him once more. He grins at that, thinking that of course Blair knows what he is up to. If the situation was reversed, she would doubtless be doing the same thing to him.

Their conversation lapses, a contemplative mood falling between them as the music swells throughout the club in a throbbing wash of sound until she eventually she looks back at him, a hint of disbelief on her face. "You really don't think I'll go up there," she states.

He shakes his head, smirking. "I _know_ you won't do it," he says smugly. He understands that she is, first and foremost, a Waldorf, and a Waldorf would never –

"Guard my drink," she replies, the very words a challenge.

Chuck raises his eyebrows at that, gesturing forward, daring her to follow through on her boast, silently calling her bluff. With a resolute expression, she rises and makes her way towards the stage.

He leans back against the cushions and grins. She won't do it. She'll chicken out at the last second, and come skittering back to her seat embarrassed, for which he plans to mock her at length. Naturally, that will make her so upset with him that she won't be thinking of –

Holy shit!

She's on the damn stage! Staring back at him defiantly, taking off her headband, and tossing it out into the crowd screaming encouragements at her.

What the fuck.

With a smirk that rivals his, she reaches slowly for the zipper on the side of her dress. As she begins sliding it down, Chuck's mouth falls open, copying the fastener's descent. A second later, and the fabric pools around her ankles leaving her standing there in nothing but a few strands of pearls and a lacy silk slip.

He can't take his eyes off her.

It isn't that her movements are provocative. She's just up there running one hand down the opposite arm and swaying her hips slightly out of sync with the pulsing music, hardly dancing at all. It isn't even that what she has stripped down to is risqué. She's still wearing more than most of the females in this club, and although technically one could call her slip a piece of lingerie, it isn't sheer or sexy or anything other than modest.

And yet he cannot look away.

Blair Waldorf is always impeccably attired, pristine in her perfection. Her nails are never chipped, her lipstick never smeared, her curls never out of place. Her very flawlessness makes her untouchable, like a china doll behind glass. Look, but do not touch, and she never lets anyone see her less than immaculate. So for her to be up there onstage, like _that_, is huge, and they both know it.

She may still be in a slip that covers more than it reveals, but in Chuck's estimation, she might as well be naked. From the instant she removes her headband, he starts _seeing_ her that way and watching him drink her image in like that makes her _feel_ that way. It doesn't matter that he has seen her in less while swimming at the pool, or that she has worn gowns cut much more seductively, because those outfits have always been part of her entirely put together façade. To both of them, the missing hair accessory and discarded dress make her nude.

It's like the whole world has distilled down to just them and this moment. The awareness of everything else fades away because the only thing that exists right now is him and her in this place together, smiling at each other as if they've never really _seen_ one another before.

Without conscious thought, he rises, approaching the stage.

"Who's that girl?" someone says, words he barely hears.

"I have no idea," he responds honestly. He doesn't recognize this girl, this bare and beautiful and breathtaking siren giving him a private show, and yet he does. She is the vixen he used to dream of, his fantasy woman, before she had _transformed_ into Blair. He would know her anywhere, and dimly he grasps she had _always_ been Blair, the Blair in front of him now, freed from the harsh strictures she imposes upon herself, laughing and carefree, comfortable and secure in her own skin.

He sips his champagne and salutes her, because he doesn't know what else to do. He is in _awe_.

But the song is ending, and as it does, reality comes crashing back. Blair blinks at him, her self-assurance slipping as she notices the mob of onlookers egging her on. She freezes, suddenly vulnerable, and Chuck is rushing to the stage, helping her down and wishing he had an overcoat or a blanket or _something_ so he could drape it over her to protect her from the lecherous stares of the men leering at her.

As it is, he wraps his arms around her, ushering her towards the exit as she looks at him gratefully. Once outside, he calls Arthur, and thankfully they don't have to wait long before the limo arrives to pick them up. The two climb inside, and before rolling up the partition, Chuck instructs his chauffer to turn up the heat since Blair had shivered in the cold night air.

"Thanks for the lift home," she says as the limo drives sedately through the streets of Manhattan.

From the opposite side of the bench seat, Chuck looks at her, remembering the way she had been onstage just minutes prior. "You were… _amazing_ up there," he breathes.

Tentatively she edges across the leather cushions until she is beside him, her face leaning towards his in what is most definitely going to become a kiss. Their lips meet, soft and hesitant, and just as her mouth begins to part under his, he draws back.

This isn't right, he thinks. This is _Blair_, his harshest critic, his worst enemy, his best friend's…

_She's single now_, a tiny voice in his head urgently reminds him.

Yeah, but she's _still_ off-limits, single or not, and she's been drinking, and she isn't herself, and she doesn't even like him and…

Oh, but she's looking at him now with heavy lidded eyes, her gaze so dark with unveiled lust that he feels like there is not enough air in the back of the limo.

"You sure?" he manages to whisper.

In response, she leans forward to kiss him again, and all further misgivings are forgotten for the time being. Once more, her lips part under his, and this time he allows the tip of his tongue to venture past her teeth and brush against hers. She tastes like champagne and something else, something elusive and indefinably _Blair_. He can't get enough of it.

And suddenly, it is all occurring so swiftly that he can do little more than react.

Her manicured fingers thread through his hair, alternately tugging and massaging, and the feeling is exquisite. He pulls her into his lap, and she grinds her pelvis against him tantalizingly, causing him to groan into her mouth. He is hard, so _very_ aroused, and there is no way she can miss it and he doesn't care, and she doesn't seem to care either since she is unbuttoning his suit jacket and helping him shrug out of it, but he is carefully trying to confine his touches to neutral areas, or at least as neutral as can be when he is touching her, because he still cannot believe he is kissing her at all and he keeps expecting her to rear back at any moment and slap him.

Despite his attempts at chivalry, however, one of his hands finds its way to her leg unbidden. He caresses her thigh, and the warmth of her skin burns into his palm through her stockings. Next he is toying with the silken straps holding up her slip, daring to slide one off her pale shoulder. He wishes he had the courage to slip its twin down as well so that the garment would fall completely, but he isn't that bold and he doesn't know how far he is allowed to go in this and knowing his luck she would probably respond badly and accuse him of being a perv and taking liberties.

So he is endeavoring to be content in letting her guide him and choose how this encounter will play out and to what extent it will go, when unexpectedly her hands are rubbing his cock through his trousers, and one of her fingers is dipping beneath his waistband and Chuck is so shocked that inadvertently he remembers all of the reasons he needed to avoid her in the first place, the chief one being her feelings for his best friend.

He tries to subdue the small hands now fumbling at his belt, but she fights his effort. She wants to escape, to forget, to drown in sensation. He knows she doesn't want to be stopped, doesn't want to slow down enough to think because if she did, this would so not be happening.

Hell, it _shouldn't_ be happening. Not like this. Not with him. Not for a girl like Blair Waldorf. She is worth more. A proper bed with rose strewn sheets. Candles and caresses and whispers of forever. She deserves that. Not this. Not a frantic fuck in the back of the limo.

He has to end this. He knows he does, even though every nerve in him is screaming to give in, to abandon all logic until the world only consists of her lips and his hips driving them towards a place from which they can never return, come what may. But once long ago he believed in romance, and in the dimmest recesses of his heart, perhaps he does still because right now he recognizes that taking her like this is wrong. It _can't_ happen. She doesn't really want this anyway. Hell, she's closing her eyes and almost certainly wishing he was someone else.

He breaks their kiss and manages to gasp, "I'm not him."

"What?" she pants as she tries to recapture his lips.

He swallows and turns his head away. He repeats in a firmer voice into the cloud of her hair, "I'm not Nathaniel."

She immediately tenses above him. He can tell he's gotten through to her when she draws away. "No, you're Chuck Bass… and I'm Blair Waldorf," she sighs into the thick silence.

He lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. He can't look at her. His altruism only extends so far. She may not want him, but oh sweet Jesus how he wants her, has always wanted her, he realizes.

Fate is a cruel fickle bitch.

Suddenly, she's cupping his face, the pressure of her fingers demanding he open his eyes. He does and she is incredibly close. Her chocolate gaze penetrates into his, smoldering with intensity.

"We're Chuck and Blair. Blair and Chuck," she whispers as she searches his features. It's like she is looking right through all his defenses, peering past the sneer he hides behind into his essence. He feels completely exposed, and yet unafraid. He blinks and he'll be damned if his eyes aren't stinging. Her thumb traces the outline of his full bottom lip and even that brief touch is excruciatingly pleasurable. His eyes roll back and she smiles at the effect she has on him before leaning forward and pressing their foreheads together. "Now shut up and take me."

He is _so_ going to hell.

With a strangled cry, he buries his fingers into her curls and pulls her mouth to his. His kisses are rushed, hungry, greedy, like he's trying to ravish her before she changes her mind. Then he forces himself to take it slow, do it right. He'll probably never be given another opportunity like this, and he wants to memorize each second, savor every moment. And though he has no flowers or words of love, he can at least give her this. A first time worth remembering, even if it isn't how she had dreamed and he isn't the boy it should have been with.

Still kissing her, he brushes his hands up her sides to her breasts. When she doesn't pull away, he takes one in each palm, kneading softly, the slip she wears the only thing inhibiting skin to skin contact. She whimpers in protest as his hands leave her, only to moan when his fingertips skim over the column of her throat, her collarbones, her shoulders, whisking the slender straps off in the process.

The silk slithers down, revealing her chest. Chuck stares for a second at those small, firm orbs. Then with a wicked smile, he lowers his head, tongue tracing around one taut nipple before drawing the dusky peak into his mouth. As he suckles first one, and then the other, she arches her back, wordlessly offering more of herself up, and he takes advantage.

He leans her back, hiking the hem of the slip up to her waist. Hooking his fingers under the tops of her hose, he draws them off while leaving her underwear on. Starting at her feet, he traces concentric circles on her smooth skin, moving ever upwards, closer and closer to the apex between her legs. By the time he reaches her inner thighs, she is trembling in expectation, her breathing heavy, and from sight alone, he can tell her panties are damp, drenched from her anticipation of his masterful touch when at last he gets there.

Pleased, he presses the heel of his hand against her covered sex, rubbing leisurely forward and back while his thumb flicks side to side.

"Chuck!" she exclaims, her head thrashing against the seats.

"Yes?" he inquires while he continues to tease her unmercifully through the sodden lace.

"Please… _please_," she pants, milky thighs quivering, spine bowing.

"Please what, princess?" he replies as he deftly slides her thong down her legs. "Say the words."

"I… I want you," she pleads looking him in the eyes. "Please, Chuck, I _need_ you."

"All in good time," he smirks as he finally cups her, fingers sliding between her silken folds as a cry escapes her throat. He barely has a chance to probe there when her palms start pressing against him with insistent force. He draws back, thinking she wants him to stop, but she just keeps pushing until he topples over. Crawling astride him, she grabs fistfuls of his shirt and yanks, buttons and fabric giving way under the onslaught.

He tenses, recalling the last time his clothing had been torn from him as he had lain beneath a girl. But as Blair's hands shove his undershirt out of the way to explore the planes of his abdomen, he reminds himself that while the eyes above him may be angry, they are _brown_ and not _blue_. Her caress is gentle, and he wills himself to relax, to let the momentary panic fade away along with the memory as he focuses on Blair's words.

"I'm done being played with Bass," she glares.

He grins at her, his little wildcat, his frustrated spitfire. "Whatever my lady commands," he says, stretching up his neck and pulling her down for a kiss her unyielding flesh seems not to want. He coaxes her lips apart, tongue plunging into the confines of her mouth to war with hers, and she begins kissing him back in earnest, the movements mimicking what their bodies are yearning to do as she undulates above him.

Then she is breaking the kiss, reaching once more for his belt. Chuck helps her this time, and soon his trousers are undone. Blair tries to straddle him again, but he prevents her with a firm grip on her waist.

"Not yet," he states, shaking his head.

He extends an arm, groping blindly around next to the seat, until he finally lifts up his crumbled suit coat. He withdraws something from the pocket before dropping the jacket unceremoniously back onto the floor. Comprehension dawns in her molten brown eyes as he holds up the silver square. Taking it from him, she tears open the foil packet and begins working at unrolling the sheath over him. He could easily do it faster than her inexpert fingers, but he makes no move to assist her. This is her last chance to back out, the point of no return. He is already sure, but he doesn't want to rush her decision in any way.

Before long, however, she is back on top of him, positioning herself. The head of his cock brushes against her slit, and even through the thin layer of latex, he can feel her liquid heat. They pause like that, their gazes meeting, and although they do not realize it, their expressions are mirrors of each other, equal parts trepidation and tenderness. They both understand that this moment, this act is irrevocable, and still their eyes are full of longing and fear because although Blair is the only real virgin between them, in this instance Chuck may as well be one too. This is the first time he cares about his partner, where sex means more than just getting off. This is how his first time should have been, how it _would_ have been if not for Georgina.

As though by some unspoken signal, they simultaneously take a breath as she lowers herself upon his length. As he enters her, she is so hot and wet and wonderfully tight. Partway down, she hesitates and at her brief uncertainty he automatically begins to withdraw. Then with a look of determination, she forces herself the rest of the way down before he can pull away any further. Pain flashes through her eyes before she squeezes them shut, and she hisses through her teeth.

Chuck cradles her to him, feeling like the worst kind of self-absorbed ass for having hurt her, even though it was unavoidable. He strokes her back, her arms, her hair, murmuring apologies against her skin, as he gives her time to adjust to his invasion.

When she eventually raises her head, he brushes his hand over her cheek. "I'm sorry," he repeats.

Then she is shushing him with her fingers against his lips. Gingerly, she raises her hips a fraction and settles back down upon him. The slight movement causes Chuck's head to drop back against the leather cushions in obvious enjoyment.

"Oh God, Blair," he breathes, his voice husky. She laughs faintly at his reaction, the staccato sound contracting her narrow channel even more around his dick. He groans at the delicious torment of it, suppressing the impulse to flip them over so he can pound into her sleek wetness. Instead, he lies there, allowing her to experiment with angles and depth and speed to discover what she prefers. As she grows increasingly more confident, his burning gaze devours the sight of her riding him, finding that special rhythm of desire.

When she does, her eyes widen with the dawning awareness that something is building within her. Seeing that look of surprise, Chuck smiles like the arrogant bastard he is, and thrusts up sharply to meet her next downward plunge. It is only his grip on her waist, the firm guidance of his hands that keeps her rocking upon his dick as she moans, her voice deep and sultry and utterly without inhibition.

Then she needs no more encouragement. Her hips instinctively roll in tandem with his, searching for something for which she has no names, no words, only incoherent sounds of _need_.

Sooner than he would have thought possible she is there, hovering in that space between agony and ecstasy. Her breaths are hitching in her throat, her legs shaking as she nears that edge of bliss. But as she closes in upon it, she backs off imperceptibly, afraid to let it happen, to lose that last shred of control.

The next time he senses her approaching that precipice and she begins to slow down, he sits up, pulling her closer while quickening his own pace, each stroke strong and sure and to the point. His hand slides between them, to that place where their bodies are conjoined, fingers seeking, seeking, until her gasp lets him know he's found the spot as her own movement upon him falters.

"Let go, princess," he whispers, his voice beseeching. "I won't let anything happen to you."

She meets his eyes, a thread of fear in those russet pools. He looks back at her intimately, compelling her to have faith in him, begging her without words not to stop but to remain in his arms and share this with him.

And with a kiss, she stays. She nips lightly at his lower lip and her hips begin searching for the rhythm to match his once more. She grasps at his shoulders, clinging desperately to him, trusting him implicitly to keep her safe as she propels towards the unknown.

Then Blair wrenches her mouth from his, her breath against the side of his face and all he can see is her tousled chestnut curls and she's _purring_ in his ear, whispering words Blair Waldorf would never say in a voice Blair Waldorf would never use and it's so fucking _hot_ hearing her come undone that way that he doesn't think he can keep this up much longer when she tenses, spasms, clenching around his cock in waves as she arches, forcing him deeper into her core. Her nails scratch trails down his back, but he barely feels it because she is throwing her head back and crying out in pleasure, and the word leaving her ruby lips is _his_ name, and that sound destroys all resistance and he follows her into the abyss.

Long seconds later, they collapse back onto the leather seats, Blair nestled upon Chuck, his arms curving possessively around her as their racing heartbeats gradually return to normal.

Eventually, she lifts herself minutely to see his face. A profound look passes silently between them and their lips meet again. This kiss is unlike any they have shared before. No passion, no pretense, just pure emotion. A kiss saying all the things they as yet cannot give voice to.

They are still kissing like that when the limo abruptly stops, breaking them from their reverie. Blair, suddenly timid, slides away, smoothing her slip back over her nakedness and searching hurriedly on the floor for her shoes. He hardly has time to pull his pants back up before she is getting out of the limo. He reaches out and grabs her hand as she steps onto the curb, and she turns back to look at him.

He intends to say something, but the words die in his throat as he catches sight of her face. He thinks she may just be the most beautiful girl he has ever seen, the most beautiful girl in the world as she smiles shyly at him.

"Goodnight Chuck," she whispers, a blush rising in her cheeks.

"Goodnight Blair," he echoes.

She swallows, withdrawing her hand from his. "Chuck, I…" she starts, as a look of confusion passes over her face. Then she slams the door and is gone, running up the steps of her building as he watches. Once she disappears inside, he leans back upon the seats, closes his eyes, and waits.

Since his last horrible run in with the psychotic bitch, nausea always hits after he sleeps with someone. A feeling of panic will invariably strike with the sickly sweet smell of vanilla and chase him from the arms of a pretty woman and into the shower in a vain attempt to wash away the sensation of phantom fingers. It has become an inevitability.

It's only when the limo stops and Arthur opens the door for him to exit that he realizes the feeling hasn't come. He still is relaxed, the taste of Blair upon his lips and the faintest hint of her flowery perfume lingering in the air. The only recollection assaulting his senses tonight is of her. The haunting memory of Georgina, with her cruel laugh and harsh caresses like a distinctive presence in his head, is fading, its power to wound dwindling.

In a daze, he climbs out of the limo and strolls into the lobby, feeling like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. As he steps into the elevator, he glimpses his reflection in the polished surface of the metal doors. He sees he is _smiling_. A big, stupid, idiotic smile that looks peculiar on his face, yet feels incredibly right. He presses a button, and even before reaching his destination, before stepping out into the cool evening air on the roof of the Place Hotel to ruminate on the events of this night, he knows what he is going to do in the morning.

Chuck Bass is going to pick Blair Waldorf up and take her out to breakfast, in public, on a date, because he simply has to see her again, and he doesn't give a shit who knows or what the consequences might be or how Nate will react.

Life has become much more complicated, but he has a plan and he doesn't fucking care about anything else right now besides seeing it through.

Because he has been subconsciously waiting for this for a long time, and yet if he thought that was long he has no idea what he's in for.

Because he…

He…

Oh damn it all.

He _loves_ her.


	21. Chapter 21

_I am everything you want_

_I am everything you need_

_I am everything inside of you that you wish you could be_

_I say all the right things at exactly the right time_

_But I mean nothing to you_

_And I don't know why_

-Vertical Horizon-

He hasn't slept, and yet as he watches the sun come up from the roof of the Palace Hotel, he isn't tired. Amazingly, he feels rejuvenated. Something is fluttering in his stomach, and it isn't making him sick. Instead, he is positively giddy. A new day has finally dawned over the Upper East Side, and in a short while he will get to see her again.

He returns back to his suite, a spring in his step. He showers quickly, and slows down only long enough to choose what to wear to this, his first date of many. He picks out a bright orange-red suit coat. It is absolutely over the top, but the color matches his mood exactly.

Who knew being in love was this brilliant?

Riding the elevator downstairs, he begins absently humming strains of Sinatra, and when the doors open, he practically waltzes across the lobby and out to the curb.

"Good morning, Arthur," he beams at his chauffer. "Beautiful day, isn't it?"

While holding the limo door open for his charge, Arthur squints at him suspiciously. "Yes, sir," he replies stiffly.

Undeterred, Chuck continues, "Do you know where they serve the best breakfast in Manhattan, Arthur?"

The man frowns ever so slightly. "Well, I have heard Via Quadronno has some excellent pastries, sir."

"Fabulous!" Chuck exclaims as he slides into the interior of the limo. "Take me there. We'll have some." He laughs at Arthur's baffled expression as he shuts the doors and gets back in the driver's seat. "But swing by the Waldorf residence first. We have to pick up Blair."

He leans back against the leather seats, remembering what had happened here with her just hours ago. He smiles at how ridiculously wonderful it had been and how much clearer everything was since. Last night had been inevitable, he realizes, because _they_ are inevitable. He knows it in his blood, in his soul. Blair Waldorf is _his_, and in a few short minutes he will be with her again and all will be well. He is so fucking excited and antsy, he feels like a kid waiting for Christmas!

Only a couple more blocks, he tells himself as he looks out the window. Then with chagrin, he remembers that he doesn't have flowers. He should have Arthur stop so he can get her flowers. In the movies, guys always bring flowers. But damn it, they are so close and he cannot stand even a slight delay in seeing her again. He'll remember next time because if anyone deserves a bouquet, it is her. But not red roses. Too cliché. No, he'll give her something different, unique, just like she is. Peonies. Purple peonies, so gorgeous she'll take them and throw herself into his arms so he can dip her and they'll kiss just like in one of those sappy chick flicks he secretly enjoys almost as much as she does.

After what seems like an eternity, the limo pulls in front of Blair's building. He climbs out before the vehicle even comes to a complete stop and hurries inside. He steps into the elevator and bounces on his toes in eagerness as he presses the button for her penthouse. When he is nearly ready to explode from pent up zeal, a ping announces he has reached his destination. He squeezes out through the narrow space between the doors the second they start sliding open, too impatient to wait even that long. He hurries into the Waldorf foyer and catches sight of Dorota hastening down the staircase from the bedrooms above.

"Mister Ch – " she begins.

"I'm here to see to Blair," he blurts out, craning his neck up the staircase, hoping Blair will descend any second behind her maid.

"I am sorry, Mister Chuck, but – "

"But what? Am I too early? Is she still asleep?" he asks in a rush. Did this woman not understand? He _has_ to see her. Now! He starts up the stairs.

Dorota steps in front of him, effectively blocking the path. "No," she says. "Miss Blair not here."

"What?" he blinks, uncomprehending. "Where is she?"

"Has gone to confess," Dorota explains.

He snorts at the absurdity. "Since when is _Blair_ Catholic?"

"Is good for her!" the maid snaps suddenly. Her eyes narrow sternly at him. "Good for you too. God always watching Mister Chuck."

Under her gaze, he shifts minutely. What exactly has Blair told her maid about him? From that look, it cannot have been good. He swallows, "Well, supposing I wanted to confess, where would be the best place for me to do that?"

Dorota's coldness thaws fractionally, and she names a church nearby.

"Thank you!" he grins, clasping her hand unexpectedly, before wheeling towards the exit, missing sight of her shaking her head at his retreating form in amusement. This time, he bypasses the elevator, and dashes down the stairs instead. Hurling himself back into the limo, he tells Arthur to take him to the church Dorota mentioned immediately.

During the brief drive, he wonders if he will have to go inside the church to find her, but as they arrive, he spots Blair just leaving. As she walks down the steps and across the street, she slides on a pair of oversized sunglasses that look like ones Audrey Hepburn would approve of.

God, she is gorgeous, he thinks to himself, and last night made him the luckiest man in the world.

He lowers his window as the limo rolls up beside her. "Well this is the last place I'd expect to find you," he teases.

She takes off her sunglasses, and the look she gives him is not friendly. She doesn't even stop as she talks to him, but continues walking determinedly along the sidewalk. "Go away Chuck! I've been given orders practically from God himself to avoid you."

Not quite the greeting he was hoping for. But then again, she is a girl and there is a ritual to these sorts of things, isn't there? So she must be playing hard to get, and if she wants to act that way, fine. He will play her game, and he will win.

"Would you consider avoiding me over breakfast?" he counters smugly.

"Sorry," she retorts sarcastically, not sounding the least bit apologetic, "But as is tradition on the day before my birthday I'm heading to the jewelers to put some pieces on hold for Eleanor and N – "

"Nate?" he finishes, cutting her off, a twinge of annoyance flashing through him at the way her face lit up as she thought of Nathaniel. "Oh I don't think he'll be singing 'happy birthday' this year," he smirks.

She turns cold eyes on him. "No one knows Nate and I broke up and it's going to stay that way so I can fix this," she begins. She says something more, and he even replies, but the suggestive response leaving his mouth is more automatic than anything else. He is still trying to process the first part of what she had said.

She wants to get back together with Nate? After last night? After she had…? And _they_ had…???

This has to be some kind of a trick! But the next sentence Chuck registers proves it is no joke.

"From this moment forward, the events of last night will never be mentioned again," she threatens, "Is that clear?"

"Not as clear as the memory of you purring in my ear which I have been replaying over and over," he leers, hiding his hurt behind nasty innuendo.

"Well erase the tape because as far as I'm concerned it never happened!" she spits.

The statement hits Chuck like a kick to the chest. He feels like he can't breathe, as if a vice is around his lungs. Did she really just say that? That in her opinion last night never happened? How can that be? Last night means _everything_ to him. How can a night so personal and precious and perfect and fucking profound mean _nothing_ to her? Hell, less than nothing?

It is only after she walks away and he calls after her bitterly that he realizes he is shaking, his stomach churning. He thinks he might throw up.

"Sir?" Arthur says cautiously, glancing at him in the rearview mirror through the partition he did not bother to lift this morning.

"Follow her," he bites out, raising the obscuring glass now.

How stupid could be possibly be? Of course she didn't care for him. He had deluded himself into thinking last night was anything other than a meaningless screw and here he had been about to make a fool of himself and hand over him his heart along with breakfast! Thank God she had scorned him and made him come to his senses.

His eyes sting and he wipes at them in irritation. He is not going to cry. No, will not shed a single tear over an insignificant slip of a girl like Blair Waldorf. He means nothing to her, and she… She means nothing to him. He certainly doesn't love her, and oh God why does it feel like a knife is wrenching through his guts?

He is doubled over, head held in his hands, trying to regain his composure, gasping raggedly, when he first detects the hint of vanilla perfume. "Oh God, oh God no," he whispers in the silence a second before the haunting sensation of Georgina's caress washes over his skin. He shudders, bile rising in his throat. Brusquely, he rubs at his arms, trying to chase away the phantom feel of her touch, and all the while he imagines he can hear her harsh laughter echoing in his skull, propelling him towards insanity.

A short while later, the limo halts with an unexpected jerk.

"Why have we stopped?" Chuck snaps through the intercom, not recognizing the buildings the limo is stalled in front of and still very much cognizant of the nightmarish memories of the whore although he is attempting to shrug them off.

"She went inside the shop on the left, sir," Arthur explains.

He peers outside in the direction indicated, and his brow furrows in confusion. It's a jewelry store, high end, of course, but not Tiffany's. Why the hell would Blair put stuff on hold anywhere other than Tiffany's? It made no sense. She loves Tiffany's and keeps the little blue boxes from every present she has ever received from there and nothing would possess her to go anywhere else.

Unless there was something here she _especially_ wanted, something she wanted badly enough that she would deign to grace a different store with her patronage instead of Tiffany's.

That had to be it. It must be.

He stares through the tinted glass, coming to a dark decision. As he does, the cruel presence of Georgina fades from awareness, almost as if she is rewarding him.

He waits until Blair exits the store, disappearing around the corner on her way back home, before he stalks inside with grim resolve, breezing past the overly helpful salesclerk. With deadly efficiency, he moves to the glass cases, studying the contents of each before sweeping onto the next. Once he has examined everything, he ponders momentarily, then backtracks decisively to one of the displays.

"I'll take this," he grinds out to the hovering jeweler.

"The Erickson Beamon necklace, sir?"

"Yes."

He doesn't even bother to check to see if it is on her gift registry. He knows it will be. The item is stunning_, _aslim chain upon which delicate pieces of platinum dangle like charms, and there in the center, larger and more prominent, but still tasteful, a diamond encrusted heart. It is so essentially _Blair_, and if he can't give it to her, she's not getting it. From anyone. Ever!

Bitch.

Afterwards, he returns back to his suite and he hardly has time to remove his jacket and untuck his shirt before someone is tapping on his door. He checks through the peephole and slumps when he sees who it is.

It is Nate, one of the only people he does not want to see at all right this moment.

"Come on man!" his friend says knocking again. "I can hear you breathing on the other side of the door. She anybody you can get rid of? I really need to talk to you man. Please?"

Fuck.

With a exasperated sound, Chuck flings open the door. "Nathaniel," he greets with false enthusiasm.

"Where's the girl?" Nate asks as he enters.

"In my dreams. I was trying to get some shuteye," Chuck lies smoothly, quickly moving the gift bag from the jewelers out of view. "What's on your mind?"

"It's my mom," the golden boy sighs, dropping onto the couch.

"Sounds Freudian," Chuck smirks, but Nate continues oblivious to the inappropriate insinuation.

"She wants me to give Blair her ring," he says.

That catches Chuck's full attention. "What? You guys broke up," he points out without thinking.

"Yeah, I know. I mean, uh… Wait, how do you know?" Nate looks at him, and for perhaps the first time those cerulean eyes are fully alert.

Shit! Shit! Shit!

"Predictably, your ex ran the old… Uh… grill the best friend play. Tried to find out where your head was at," he answers lamely. "So uh… Where uh… Where is your head?"

There is no way anyone could possibly _not_ see through that pathetic excuse. He is so royally fucked. Mentally, he braces himself for a confrontation. But one does not come.

"Spinning," Nathaniel admits, seemingly unaware of Chuck's lapse. He must be _really_ stoned. "I mean my mom wants me to get back with Blair so Eleanor doesn't pull out of their _business_ deal. It's all because of my dad's whole trial thing, you know?"

"Yeah, I'm sorry about all that," Chuck freely confesses, his brain working frantically.

Nathaniel cannot get back together with Blair. He absolutely _cannot_. Not that Chuck wants her for himself. Not anymore. But it is the point of the thing! _If_ he wanted her, and _couldn't_ have her, then he would have to make certain she _couldn't_ have what she wanted either because if he can't have what he wants, then neither can she Goddamn it.

Hypothetically speaking, of course.

"But look," Chuck continues, and only the most dedicated observer would have noticed his slight hesitation before speaking, "If you're done with Blair, be _done_. Don't cave to your parent's wishes if they're not your desires."

Nate raises his brows, incredulous. "Excuse me? Where's my boy? Seal the deal? Tap that ass? Money marries bigger money?"

Hearing his own words repeated back at him, Chuck hangs his head in a show of embarrassment, but he already knows exactly how to play this out. He will be the concerned friend just trying to have Nathaniel's back. He only has his best interests at heart. And when Nate leaves the suite a few minutes later, the cheered up lad still has no clue there were ulterior motives behind Chuck convincing him to stand up against his parents controlling his life.

Locking the door after his friend's exit, Chuck realizes he should feel guilty for manipulating Nathaniel that way, but he doesn't. Not really. Perhaps deep down he does, but the utter satisfaction he is experiencing right now overpowers everything else.

Blair Waldorf is not going to have a happy birthday this year, and Chuck Bass has just guaranteed that.

Life may be a bitch, but sometimes life can be a bastard too.


	22. Chapter 22

_I'm not always like this_

_It's something I become_

_A terrible weakness_

_In my nature, in my blood_

_Save me, oh save me_

_Save me from myself_

_Before I hurt somebody else again_

-Imogen Heap-

He should _not_ have brought the necklace. He should have left it locked up in his suite. He is _not_ going to give it to her, so bringing it is stupid. He knows this. He reminds himself of it during the entire limo ride, and the walk to the building, and the trip in the elevator, and even when he enters the party itself.

As he steps in through the doors, however, and his gaze lands on her, he thinks perhaps he _will_ give it to her. Then she sees him and instantly makes a beeline for the balcony to avoid talking to him again.

Never _fucking_ mind!

He'll bestow it on some Brooklyn troll before he'll ever allow her to have it.

Bitch.

But inexplicably he follows her outside, and the first words leaving his mouth are _traitorous_. "You ready for your present?"

Why had he said that? Why? Be strong, Bass! Don't be a weak willed pussy! She's just a girl. She's just a –

"Ow!" he exclaims as she grabs him by the hair, wrenching his head down harshly. "If you wanted to play rough, all you had to do was ask!"

She glares, only releasing him to smile and wave with false politeness at some classmates hurriedly clearing the area. They know better than to stick around when Queen B is apparently pissed.

"You nauseate me!" she says, returning her attention to Chuck once the others have gone back inside.

"All this talk of how you have to be with Nate or the world will end," he mocks. "Face it! It's over."

She sighs in exasperation. "You sound like a jealous boyfriend."

Had he been that _transparent_?

"Yeah right," Chuck scoffs. "You wish." He swallows, his jaw tensing unconsciously.

Oh shit. Don't look at her. Play it cool. Think Bogart. Think Casablanca. Think –

"No… _you_ wish," she says, examining his profile in the moonlight.

"Please!" he denies, chancing a peek at her. "You forget who you're talking to."

"So do you!" she counters. Her eyes narrow suspiciously.

Please let her drop it. Please let her not see. Please, God have mercy, please!

"Do you… _like_ me?"

Fuck.

Why is this happening? _Why_? What has he ever done?

Okay, what _hasn't_ he done?

But seriously, wasn't there anyone else out there more deserving of this humiliation?

For a second, he considers acting like her question is outrageous, but those chocolate orbs of hers are too perceptive. She will spot the truth instantly, and that unnerves him. He had not wanted to reveal his feelings towards her _ever_, least of all tonight after she had so clearly rejected him this morning, claiming that what he prized about all else was something that had never happened.

"…define like," he scowls.

The shock on her face is _worse_ than her reaction had been only hours before beside his limo. She shakes her head in unmistakable disgust, mocks his emotions, and like a vicious kick to the gut, tells him to _murder_ the butterflies he feels whenever he sees her. And she _smiles_ while she does it!

Mortified, he sneers at her and lies through his teeth. "Fine," he grinds out. "It wasn't that _great_ anyway."

"Thanks," she retorts, and he has to remind himself that what he saw flash through her eyes was not pain, but merely wishful thinking on his part. Obviously she does not care for him enough to be hurt by his insult. She doesn't care for him at all.

He stamps inside, silently fuming. How could he have been so stupid? So deluded? Last night had been nothing but meaningless sex, _great_ meaningless sex, but meaningless all the same.

He runs his hands roughly through his hair. He has to let this go. He is honored to have played a small role in her deflowering, but it is time to move on. He is Chuck Bass after all. He needs to stop trying to pretend he's a good guy. So he slept with his best friend's girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend. Whatever. Been there. Done that. So why not leave this pathetic excuse of a party and find some hot blonde with huge breasts and legs for days to screw until he can't even remember that no one enjoys their first time?

…except for her.

Goddamn it. Quit thinking of that!

He knows immediately when she reenters the penthouse suite. He can tell by the way electricity suddenly prickles in the air around him. Curse her and her ability to make him feel this way! He should go. Right now. Before he does something awful. But for some reason his feet will not propel him towards the door.

"_Poor Chucky,_" Georgina's taunts like a ghost through his mind. He grits his teeth, bile rising.

This _cannot_ be what his life has been reduced to. Yearning for one heartless bitch while the memory of another drives him insane? He _must_ be in hell, or else karma has finally caught up with him. Either way, he should just fling himself off the roof of the Palace Hotel. Surely _that_ would be better than _this_.

Across the room, he watches her from the corner of his eye, and when she heads back to the balcony, he takes note. He is not going to follow her, however. Absolutely not.

Oh God, why is he walking that direction? Why? Don't go out there! Don't give her another chance to laugh and scorn! Stop! Please stop. For the love of all that's holy…

He steps out into the evening air.

That fucking settles it. Chuck Bass is a chump. A _whipped_ chump chasing after a girl who doesn't even like him! He is _beyond_ pathetic.

She evidently thinks so too, because as he comes to stand behind her, she rolls her eyes. "Stalk me much?" she sneers.

Why does he keep doing this to himself? Only a _masochist_ could ever love such a _narcissist_. And it isn't stalking! 'Stalking' is such a harsh word. It is more like… obsessively observing.

She moves away, and hating himself even as he does it, he follows her. "What are you still doing up here all alone?" he asks.

"I don't know where Nate is," she sighs. "And he always calls me at midnight when it turns into my birthday."

Not this time, Chuck thinks. "Well, I wouldn't count on it tonight," he replies, nonchalantly moving in for the kill.

Don't do this Bass. Don't set her up this way. Nathaniel said that stuff in _confidence_. She is never supposed to know. It will only hurt her.

"_Precisely!_"

Georgina's voice again, grating inside his skull. But for the first time, he doesn't shudder at the mental intrusion; he welcomes it, because the whore is right. This _will_ hurt her. And he _wants_ to hurt her. This girl has gotten under his skin and he wants her to understand exactly what it is like to mean _nothing_ to someone who means _everything_ to you. Wants to see those tears in her eyes and that look of recognition on her face. Wants to rejoice in her feeling as rejected as she has made him feel.

Glancing at Blair, he speaks again, his offhand tone making his comment appear like an afterthought instead of the carefully phrased attack it really is. "Doesn't it strike you as just a little bit of coincidence the timing of everything?"

Curious, she looks at him. "What do you mean?"

"Well Nate _suddenly_ decides he wants to get back together just _moments_ after your mother puts the breaks on her deal with the Captain?" he says, unable to hide his smirk.

Blair blinks, incredulous. "So you're saying that Nate is only _pretending_ to like me and that he's actually _using_ me to get to my mother?" She shakes her head. "He wouldn't do that."

Doubt is such a wonderful emotion to prey upon.

"Yes, he would," Chuck points out smugly. "If it was to help his _family_, you know he would."

"Nate _loves_ me," she informs him, sounding more like she is trying to convince herself than him. Upon hearing the uncertainty in her words, Chuck smiles gleefully. Seeing his reaction, she bristles. "Whatever he's doing, wherever he is, he _will_ call me at midnight. You'll see."

Sometimes manipulation is so effortless.

"Care to make a wager?" he gloats. "If he calls, I'll leave you alone forever. If he doesn't, you spend the night with me." Leering, he inclines his head, gaze focused on her lips, leaning closer, invading her space.

"I will not!" she spits, shoving him away.

"I thought you were sure," he counters swiftly, neatly maneuvering her into a position where she has to agree to the bet or admit she is worried Nathaniel won't call.

She glowers at him for a second, realizing what he has so skillfully done. "You're gonna lose," she threatens. "He's never missed my birthday."

With that parting shot, she stalks back inside and he watches her go. There is no way Nate is going to be calling this evening. Chuck, being the person behind the midnight calls in the first place, knows that better than anyone.

When Blair had turned nine, he had dared Nathaniel to phone hoping an angry Eleanor would answer instead. But she hadn't, and Blair had been delighted with the impromptu 'it just officially became your birthday' greeting. A year later, Chuck had forced Nate to do it again, interested to see if she would remember, and she had. After that, it was a tradition. Every year on the eve before Blair's birthday, even when he supposedly hated her, Chuck found himself arranging to be with Nathaniel so he could ensure that when the appointed time drew nigh, her cell would chime and her boyfriend would be on the line. Once he had even gone so far as to dial her number _himself_ when Nate didn't see the point of calling when they were both already _at_ her party. "Because it's romantic if you do!" Chuck had growled as he'd pressed the ringing phone into his friend's hand before storming off. But now, he is done playing Cyrano. He isn't going to remind his best friend before the moment slips past, and he is confident that Nathaniel, never one to be particularly astute anyway, won't think of it on his own.

So while Blair Waldorf waits for a call that is never coming, Chuck Bass waits to witness her dreams getting crushed. And as the seconds wind down, he joins her at the makeshift bar where she is taking a shot of tequila.

"12:01," he tells her, surprised not to have elation surging through him like he was expecting. "I'm sorry."

"No, you're _smarmy_. There's a difference," she sighs bitterly. "If you're coming to collect, you can forget it."

He ignores her jibe. "Turn around," he says.

She grimaces. "You get grosser by the second."

Exasperated, he gestures behind her. "You get _older_. Look!"

Then Serena appears holding a cake, everyone surrounding them, congratulating her on turning seventeen. "Happy birthday!"

"Make a wish, Blair!" the blonde beams.

"It already didn't come true," Blair whispers, the end of her sentence betraying how upset she is before she pushes her way through the crowd of well wishers. Standing at the bar, watching her go, Chuck feels… _guilty_. He blows out her candles for her, debating whether he should try to speak to her or leave her alone or speak to her after leaving her alone for a while.

He is still weighing his options, attempting to make up his mind when all at once, there is a cacophony of beeps and buzzes and chimes as everyone's phones go off at simultaneously. That can only mean one thing. Gossip Girl has just sent out an alert.

Chuck pulls his cell from his pocket, deciding this message is very bad the second he sees what is on the screen.

It is a picture of a boy who is _definitely_ Nate Archibald in the arms of a girl who is definitely _not_ Blair Waldorf.

Shit.

"You know what, maybe she's wrong? It wouldn't be the first time," Serena suggests, ever the optimist.

But when Blair walks into their midst, looking like she is in shock, the golden nymph's hopefulness fades. "Blair, hey, I'm so sorry. I never would've thought this would happen."

Trying to comfort their queen, Blair's minions rally to her defense, taking her side immediately.

"I hope the slut gave him _herpes_!" one of them declares.

"The cheater totally _deserves_ herpes!" echoes the second.

"He isn't cheating," Blair exclaims suddenly. "We broke up, okay? He was gonna get back together with me, but only so my mom would help his dad." Then, meeting Chuck's gaze, she adds, "You satisfied?"

Her face starts to crumple, and without warning, she hurries from the room, Serena chasing after her, Chuck left behind, immobile, wondering what the hell he has done, feeling like a supreme asshole.

He planned to hurt her, yes, _wanted_ to, even. But not like this. Never like this. He expected her to feel the sting of rejection, not be publicly humiliated. He hadn't anticipated that Nate would go out tonight with someone else and be photographed! Chuck's words and Nathaniel's behavior had combined to pierce her armor so thoroughly that emotion poured out of her unchecked, causing her to have to flee the room or risk sobbing in front of all her peers.

He _has_ to fix this. Somehow, someway, he has to make this right.

Retrieving the unopened present he kept telling himself he wouldn't ever give her, he follows down the hall towards the bedroom into which she had disappeared. He opens the door carefully, and regrets his part in the events of tonight even more as he spots her curled in a fetal position on the bed.

"I'm not in the mood, Chuck," she sighs as she sees him, sitting up, valiantly trying to hide her sorrow in front of him. "This is pretty much the worst birthday ever."

He sits beside her on the mattress and holds out the black gift box. "Maybe it can be salvaged," he states.

"What is that? Our sex tape?" she asks sarcastically, rolling her eyes, before blinking in astonishment as he opens the hinged lid and shows the contents to her. "It's the Erickson Beamon necklace," she breathes.

Without replying, he lifts the platinum chain from the red velvet lining, and starts undoing the clasp, intent on her wearing it immediately. Understanding his purpose, she demurs, "No, I couldn't."

"Yes, you can," he says firmly. Then more with look and gesture than words, he tells her that she is beautiful and worth so much more than the trinket he is slipping around her neck. He takes the time to adjust all the little charms so they fall straight, willing her to rebuild her usually impenetrable shield of poise and perfection, that dignified wall she uses to protect herself that had cracked in front of everyone when that Gossip Girl blast had arrived.

"I really am sorry," he whispers, sincerity in every word. Meeting her gaze in the mirror, he sees not the alluring woman from last night, but a little girl lost and afraid. Blair Waldorf needs her life plan to function every bit as much as he does, and seeing her without it, that haunted quality the loss puts on her face, he wants to pull her close and reassure her that everything will be fine.

Unexpectedly, he finds himself taking her hand and placing a kiss on her shoulder, more tender than passionate, sensing that is what she needs right now. To be comforted and cherished and made to feel safe.

And he realizes he is strangely _furious_ with Nathaniel. Upset at him for hurting her this way, for giving her up, for spending the night with some random blonde bimbo hours after they'd broken up and not even having the decency of being discreet about it. But mostly he is angry at his friend for not appreciating what a precious thing his ex-girlfriend had been. She was a girl who had stood by him loyally despite the Serena debacle and the year of lies and deceit simply because she loved him, faults and all, and only wanted to be loved in return. Chuck would give anything for her to care about him even half as much and Nate had discarded it like it was nothing, and although Chuck is grateful, he is still pissed. Deep down, he is jealous because Blair has stolen his heart so completely while he has yet to touch hers since Nathaniel has it and doesn't even value it!

Selfish bastard.

Chuck lifts his head to look at her, and her hand is suddenly on his neck, pulling his mouth to hers. He doesn't resist, and their lips meet easily. Maybe it is easy because it is right. His tongue ventures past her teeth, and the effect is almost instantaneous. Desire ignites between them, and she pushes him into the mattress, deepening the contact as he reaches up to caress the bare skin of her arms.

Abruptly, he turns his face, ending the kiss. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" she inquires as he pulls back, standing.

"Shhhh!" he hisses. Quickly he strides across the room and peers out into the deserted hallway. "Odd, I could have sworn…" His voice trails off as he shuts the door, engaging the lock. He turns around and is startled to see her inches from him. She steps forward, closing the small space between them so fast that the impact sends him stumbling into the wall with a quiet thump.

"Careful, princess," he admonishes softly before she stretches up for another kiss. Her tongue entices his lips apart, invading the confines of his mouth, and he finds her newfound assertiveness incredibly arousing. His hands clutch at her hips, grinding her pelvis into his as they try to devour each other.

With a forceful jerk, she untucks his shirt and slides her palms under the fabric. Her fingers trace the contours of his abdomen, his chest, his shoulders, until with an impatient sound, she breaks away. "Off," she commands. He blinks at her in confusion, his brow furrowed. "Take it off," she elaborates, plucking at the silky material, "Or I'm going to ruin it."

He laughs at that, shrugging off his jacket and starting to undo the buttons of his shirt as she takes advantage of his preoccupation to rub his throbbing erection through his trousers. He groans, struggling with his cufflinks, eager to touch her similarly. Then thinking to hell with it, he rips the material to free his hands so he can reach under her dress to cup her ass and hoist her into the air. As her feet leave the floor, she squeals before he rotates them and presses her against the door. The bulge in his pants is positioned precisely between her thighs, and she gasps at the delicious friction, arching into him and wrapping her legs around his waist to increase the pressure.

"God, I want you," she whispers, tilting her head so Chuck can kiss a blazing trial from her jaw to her ear and along her neck. As his tongue licks at her collarbones, she undulates in his arms, bucking against his hardness, craving the feel of his body within hers.

Still supporting her weight, he walks backwards until he bumps into the edge of the bed a step sooner than he estimates he will. Losing his balance while overcorrecting, he topples over onto the orange and cream blankets, Blair landing sprawled atop him.

"Very suave, Bass," she snorts.

"I'm glad you're amused," he growls, bringing her giggling lips to his once more. He buries his hands in her hair as they kiss, fingers methodically pulling out pins until the chestnut curls cascade around her shoulders, wild and untamed. That accomplished, he leans back to appreciate the view, tracing the neckline of her gown, finger dipping seductively into the hollow of her cleavage.

"You're not wearing a bra, and this _needs_ to come off," he nods, reaching behind her for the zipper. After it is lowered, his hands stray under the tulle skirts, lifting the entire thing over her head in one graceful motion. And before she even recognizes what is happening, he flips her so that he is in the dominant position, nestled between her thighs, grinning wickedly. "Much better."

Propping himself up on an elbow, he drinks in the sight of her exposed chest, seemingly adorned by the necklace glittering around her throat. "Oh God," he groans, his face sinking to capture one of her rosy nipples in his mouth. He laps at the hardening peak, sucking gently until she begins murmuring his name over and over, massaging his scalp. When he raises his head, she makes a small sound of protest until he lavishes attentions on the other breast.

Next he sits back on his heels, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of her tights, stripping the silken stockings down her shapely legs along with her underwear. Drawing her knees up, he tests her readiness, inserting two fingers into her ample wetness, flexing them in a beckoning gesture. Her lips part in a wordless sigh, her eyes rolling back, as he continues pleasuring her this way. Only when her spine bows, her moans turning to inarticulate cries as she tenses in expectation and her head thrashes on the pillows, does he withdraw, leaving her nearly sobbing in frustration at having been denied release.

"Chuck, please don't stop," she begs.

"I want to feel you to cum on _me_," he says in a terribly husky voice, divesting himself of his trousers and tearing open a foil packet.

"Hurry," she pleads, reaching for him hungrily as soon as the condom is unrolled. But instead of crawling over her, he grabs her hands and pulls her to her feet. Whirling her around, he guides her onto all fours on the bed, nudging her thighs apart.

"Chuck?" she asks, looking over her shoulder at him uncertainly.

Then he brushes the swollen head of his cock against her entrance and her face sinks to the coverlet with a low moan. Smirking, he teases her, rubbing between her slick folds tantalizingly without ever actually penetrating. She keeps trying to rock herself back upon him, and only his hands upon her waist prevent her from succeeding.

"Please, Bass, _please_," she whimpers, her hands repeatedly kneading at the bedspread. "Oh _fuck_, please!"

"As you wish," he smirks. But instead of surging forward, he pulls back as he bends over her, nuzzling her neck until she shivers, arching upwards like a cat. A sigh of contentment escapes her ruby lips and her lids drift shut, her whole body relaxed and fluid beneath him.

Then with astonishing speed, he thrusts into her, his thick length invading her core. She cries out at the sudden feeling of fullness as her tight sheath stretches to accommodate him, but the sound is one of bliss and not pain. He curves an arm around her, pulling them both upright until she is on her knees. "Open your eyes, Blair," he urges softly against the tender skin of her throat.

She does, gasping when she sees their lovemaking clearly framed in the mirror opposite them. In the reflection, their dark gazes meet, faces hovering side by side, and he smiles at the incredible feeling of intimacy as she leans back against him, her head resting upon his shoulder.

The embrace deepens as he folds around her instinctively, cupping one breast, thumb grazing over the tawny nipple as his other hand skims deftly over her belly and into the triangle of ringlets between her thighs.

"Chuck," she moans as his fingers expertly circle that sensitive nub at the top of her slit.

"Watch yourself, princess," he breathes into the shell of her ear, his eyes never leaving hers. "Realize how beautiful you are."

And only then, as she sees herself as he has always seen her, does he begin moving within her molten center, sliding in and out in long smooth strokes.

His pace is slow, almost agonizingly so, and yet soon they are both breathless, glistening with sweat, clinging together, striving towards a fulfillment that comes not from the building tension within their loins, but from each other.

And as the rush of passion at last crests over them, their heads turn almost simultaneously. Their lips come inexplicably together in a kiss as their bodies entwine one final time, and for a brief second it appears as if they really _are_ one.

Then they collapse onto the bed, spent. Chuck uses the last of his energy to draw her to him before closing his eyes in utter satisfaction. When he awakes hours later, Blair is still there, safe and secure, snuggled into the cocoon of his arms, a tiny smile on her face as she dreams.

It is in this moment, when he feels a sense of peace settle over him as he looks at her instead of panic, that he understands that this is the girl he is going to marry. Not next week or next year. But someday. He is sure of it.

He allows himself to hold her for a few more minutes, breathing in the scent of her hair. Then he gets up carefully so as not to rouse her. He smiles as her arm reaches out, unconsciously searching for him once he is gone before he pulls the blankets up over her. He dresses silently and places a gentle kiss on her temple before he slips quietly from the room with one lingering glance at her sleeping form.

He doesn't want to go, but he knows he must. Because while _he_ knows she is destined to be his wife, _she_ does not. So right now, Blair Waldorf is like one of the Arabians his father used to own, magnificent and powerful, but easily spooked and impossible to stop once they've bolted. And if he is going to get her to realize what is so evident to him, he is going to have to pursue her with the same approach he would use with one of those beautiful thoroughbreds. He is going to have to go slow, with patience and persistence, so she doesn't run away before admitting she _does_ love him every bit as much as he loves her.


	23. Chapter 23

_His little whispers_

_Love me, love me_

_That's all I ask for_

_Love me, love me_

_He battered his tiny fists to feel something_

_Wondered what it's like to touch and feel something_

_Monster, how should I feel?_

_Creatures lie here_

_Looking through the window_

-Meg & Dia-

Before her birthday, Blair had mentioned that her father was flying in from Paris to see her over Thanksgiving, and aware of how much her dad means to her, Chuck allows her some respite during the holiday. He'll have plenty of time to pursue her after. During the break, he thinks of her often though, envisioning the entire Waldorf clan crowded around a table, happily sharing a home cooked meal, and Blair in the center of it all, radiant.

He tries to imagine what that would be like; sharing a special day each and every year with people one loves who love one back? It must be wonderful.

The Basses never do family holidays, Thanksgiving or otherwise. Privately he doubts that had always been the case, worries that perhaps they ceased celebrating _after_ he had been born, when his mother died bringing him into the world. He never works up the courage to ask, however, because he believes he already knows the answer. Having it confirmed is an agony he would rather spare himself.

So he spends Thanksgiving as he always does, alone. He drinks scotch in his suite while watching the Macy's Parade on television rather than in person, and before the first football game even airs, he gratefully passes out.

By Monday however, he is back in top form, and as Blair opens her locker that first day back to school, there on top of her books is a purple peony and an unsigned card.

_I need to see you_

Between classes, their paths cross. She bumps into him, sneering at him in front of everyone. "Watch where you're going Bass," she spits as she storms off, but not before surreptitiously pressing a small folded piece of paper into his palm. Feeling like it is burning into his hand, he delays reading it only long enough to disappear into the safety of a bathroom stall.

_Met steps_

_3:30_

_Pick me up_

As soon as school lets out, he is waiting, and at the exact appointed time, Blair arrives and slips covertly into the limo.

"No one can know about this," she says.

"Know about what?" he replies faux innocent, positive he understands her meaning completely. But he will take her any way he can have her, and if she wants to keep their relationship under wraps for a while, that is fine with him.

He starts to say something else, but with a sly grin she is suddenly in his arms, tearing at his clothes as if ravenous, kissing him fiercely, and for the life of him whatever he had been about to say no longer seems that important.

It is only after a couple weeks, when she agrees to go to her debutant ball with a blueblood dullard instead of _him_ that Chuck realizes he should never have consented to keep their affair hidden for _any_ length of time. Clandestine meetings and concealed rendezvous are exciting, but not enough. He wants more. He wants it all, everything, the whole works, not just stolen moments in dark corners and special looks across the courtyard.

Blair is _glowing_ and it is all because of him and why shouldn't everyone know that? He is more at peace now than he has ever been, and it is because of the effect she has on him, and he wants to shout it from the rooftops and share that knowledge with all of the Upper East Side and furthermore, he _needs_ her to be his. Not secretly his or sort of his, but utterly and openly his!

"Chuck? Earth to Chuck? Hello?"

"What?" Chuck says turning to see Nathaniel looking at him bemused. "Sorry. What were you saying?"

"What is up with you man?" Nate asks, shaking his head. "I never see you anymore, and when I do you're always so scatterbrained."

"Yeah, I guess I've been a bit… preoccupied lately," Chuck admits.

"Doing what?"

Chuck knows he is treading on dangerous territory, but he cannot help himself. "Not what," he smirks. "_Who_."

Nate snorts. "I should have known a girl was involved. Who is it? Anyone I know?"

"Not… precisely."

"Is she another of the Maxim covers?"

Chuck shrugs, noncommittal, allowing his friend to misinterpret the gesture.

"You dog!" the golden boy exclaims. "How many is that now?"

"Why do a few when you can do the whole set, Nathaniel," Chuck leers.

"You lucky bastard!" Nate laughs, clapping him on the shoulder.

Looking across the quad to meet Blair's gaze for a brief second as she passes surrounded by her circle of minions, Chuck smiles. "Yes, yes I am."

Later in the day, mere minutes after cotillion rehearsal ends, Chuck finds himself in the Waldorf penthouse, kissing Blair like he is starving and she is food. He virtually growls into her mouth as his hands rake up her legs. Those scarlet stockings she's wearing had driven him mad all afternoon through that infernal dance practice. He can barely keep his eyes off her shapely thighs in public as it is, and to have them paraded in front of him encased in crimson cotton when he couldn't touch them because others were around had been a cruel torment. He knows she wore the tights to taunt him deliberately. He never should have confessed how much he enjoys stripping them off her.

Such a vixen.

God, he loves it. He loves her. He cannot get enough.

"You looked pretty hot on _Princess_ Theodore's arm today," he murmurs between kisses.

"Oh, is that what I am to you? Just an accessory?" Blair inquires jokingly.

"Next to him? Yes," Chuck smirks, and then rolls so that she is astride him, pressing on his growing arousal. "On me you'd be so much more."

"Yes, but I can't be _on_ you, remember? 'Cause you don't want Nate to find out, and I don't want anyone to. And you'd have to learn how to _behave_ yourself first," she whispers, mischief in her eyes, pulling him up for another kiss.

Then a ping sounds downstairs, alerting them to the arrival of the elevator. A second later Dorota calls, "Miss Blair! Mister Nate for you!"

Goddamn it!

Chuck collapses back onto the bed, irritated with the interruption. But Blair leans over him once more, nuzzling his neck. "I'll get rid of him as quick as I can," she promises before sliding away.

He lays there for a few seconds, debating. But curiosity wins out, and he walks to the door to eavesdrop on their conversation. Hearing Blair tell Nate that they need to move on fills Chuck with glee, but then Nathaniel pulls out his ace in the hole, reminding Blair of the heart pin she'd sewn in the sweater he is apparently wearing.

That mother fucker!

Blair had given Nate that pin the first time she told him she loved him, and using it now was a low blow, a dirty trick even by Chuck Bass standards. And of course, _of_ _course_ she agrees to go to the ball with him instead of Prince Theodore because of it. As _friends_, but regardless, Chuck is fuming.

That asshole!

When Blair returns upstairs shortly afterwards, he is still pissed. As soon as she steps into her room, he slams the door shut, pulling her roughly into his arms for a harsh kiss that leaves her weak in the knees.

"You're going with _Nathaniel_?" he snarls against the skin of her neck, pushing her back onto the bed, pressing himself between her legs.

She arches into his hardness. "You're acting like a jealous boyfriend again," she pants.

"Well we both know I'm not."

"A boyfriend? No. Jealous? Yes."

"And whose fault is that?" he retorts, cupping her through her shorts, finding the crotch damp.

"Mine," she whimpers.

"Exactly, because you keep turning me down." He takes his hand away, shoving her shirt up to reveal her brassiere.

"It's more fun this way," she gasps as his head lowers to suck one taunt nipple through the thin lace.

"For you, maybe."

"Right, like you'd enjoy being a couple? Chuck and Blair going to the movies? Chuck and Blair holding hands? Oh God, don't stop!" She shudders, his palm reaching under her waistbands to find her slick folds.

"We don't have to do those things," he points out, plunging a finger into her wet heat. "We can do the things we like."

She cries out, bucking against his hand. "What we like is this!"

He continues thrusting inside her, smothering her moans against his lips until her sheath clenches around his probing digits. Then he withdraws his hand, undoing her shorts to whisk them off along with her tights and drenched underwear.

Her tongue ventures out to moisten her parched lips as he lowers his own pants, revealing his throbbing erection. He quickly unrolls a condom over his length before crawling over her.

Ready to sink into her warmth, he looks deeply into her eyes and stops unexpectedly. "Please say yes," he begs, not sure himself entirely what he is asking her to say yes to. Wanting him? Choosing him? Loving him? All of the above? He isn't sure, but understands that the answer is terribly important even if he doesn't know the question.

She peers back at him playfully. "Chuck Bass, I… will never say that word to you."

He pulls back from her entrance slightly, his jaw tightening. "Then you will never have me."

She snorts, wrapping her legs around his waist, trying to impale herself upon him. "Please! I _already_ have you, and we both know I'm your one and only," she teases.

"Then why can't I be yours?"

She breathes out exasperated. "Because Nate would freak," she explains stretching up to recapture his lips.

He turns his face away. "So what? Agree to be mine and I'll handle Nathaniel."

She nibbles his neck, curving her hands over his shoulders, purring into his ear. "I'd rather you handle me right now."

And without warning, he jerks away from her completely. "I'm tired of you acting like this is just sex," he snaps.

Blair blinks at him like he has lost his mind. "What is it then?" she demands.

"You know _exactly_ what it is!"

She groans, closing her eyes and leaning back upon the blankets. "You're ruining the mood with all this talk."

"And you're ruining it with all these games," he sneers, pulling his trousers back up.

Hearing the unmistakable sound of his zipper, she props herself on her elbows. "What are you doing?"

"Going home, unless you're ready to raise the stakes," he observes drily.

Her mouth drops in shock. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Admit what this is, or I'm leaving."

"Is this about Nate? It's a stupid dance, Chuck!" she cries angrily.

"Not to me it isn't!" he shouts suddenly grabbing her shoulders. "Don't you get it? I lo – " He bites the word back. He can't say it, _won't_ say it. Not while she still pretends she feels nothing for him. He drops her arms abruptly; fearful he will shake her in his frustration. "I can't do this anymore. Not today," he confesses, heading for the door.

As his hand closes over the knob, she climbs off the bed, wrapping her arms around him. "Chuck! Chuck don't go," she pleads.

He turns to look at her. "Why? Give me a reason."

"Cause you don't want to," she responds as if it is the most obvious thing in the world.

He shakes his head minutely. "Not good enough."

"Cause _I_ don't want you to," she sighs.

"That's not enough," he repeats, beseeching her with his eyes to be honest with him about this for once.

She only stares back as if confused. "What else is there?" she asks.

He smiles sadly, disentangling himself from her embrace. "The truth. When you figure that out, you know where to find me."

"Chuck wait!" she exclaims clutching at him as he tries to leave once more, then he hugs her suddenly, kissing her, coaxing her lips apart, plundering the depths of her mouth with his tongue, cupping her face tenderly. He puts all of his emotions into this moment, telling her without words everything he feels as she softens against him and he propels them back towards the bed.

Then he breaks the kiss, leaving her breathless, sitting on the edge of the mattress. "You need to decide if all this is worth it," he whispers, pressing their foreheads together. "Or I'm done."

With that he turns and walks rapidly away, not daring to look back at her, knowing he will cave if he does.

He caves anyway after three days. Three _hellish_ days in which she doesn't so much as speak to him although she is damn near unavoidable. She is everywhere, constantly wearing him down. Brushing against him at school. Giving him significant looks across the courtyard. Pinning her hair up, exposing the nape of her neck. Letting their fingers touch a second longer than necessary at dance rehearsals. Taking a long moment to bend over to adjust her shoe so he catches a glimpse of the lace garters she has on under her Constance uniform. She becomes a seductive minx, flaunting herself at him, intentionally tormenting him with her very proximity.

Bitch.

But he admires her for it, truly. And on the morning of the fourth day, he is standing in her foyer waiting while Dorota rushes to fetch her.

"Waving the white flag, are we?" she gloats as she descends the stairs.

"Not exactly," he replies when she reaches the bottom, handing her the bouquet of lavender roses he had kept hidden behind his back. The florist told him they represent love at first sight, although he is guessing Blair does not know that as she raises the fragrant blooms to her face.

"Smells a little like desperation," she smirks.

He looks down, shifting his weight self-consciously. "Blair, I came to apologize. I was jealous – "

"Obviously!" she interjects.

He grits his teeth, squelching the impulse to snap something nasty back at her. He takes a deep breath and continues. "I was jealous, and I took it out on you. I never should have pressured you that way. I demanded too much, too fast, and I'm sorry. I didn't mean what I said. Is there any chance I can make it up to you today?"

"No," she answers immediately.

"Fine!" he grinds out angrily, turning to go, pissed as hell.

"But only because I'm busy today," she calls to his back. "I have to go give final approval on Nate's tux, and then host a tea for my mother."

Hope surges within his breast. "I'd love to give you a ride," he says.

She rolls her eyes. "I'm sure you would."

"Not that kind of ride!" he scowls. Then, off her look, he amends, "Okay, not _just_ that kind of ride. But seriously, let me take you where you're going."

She laughs. "I can walk. It's only up the street."

"Please Blair. Don't torture me. I'm dying," he begs melodramatically.

She purses her lips, considering, making him suffer a little longer. Then she exhales as if doing him a great kindness. "Okay."

He meets her eyes in triumph, and finds that there is triumph in her chocolate orbs as well. And as she glides past him, he wonders briefly _who_ exactly is pursuing _whom_ in this relationship.

As they exit the elevator, he watches the swing of her hips as she struts in front of him, appreciating the delectable curve of her backside in those…

"Since when do you wear jeans?"

She tosses him a coy look. "You like?"

"They're… okay," he shrugs, totally lying, curious when she had gotten them and if _he_ had been the impetus behind the purchase.

Smiling, she flips her hair back over her shoulders. "They're more than okay, and quit staring at my ass."

"Yes ma'am," he grins.

Once they have both climbed into the limo, Blair speaks again. "So you weren't really serious about that ultimatum then?"

Chuck narrows his eyes at her. "Not at all," he answers guardedly.

She nods thoughtful. "And how you felt? Was that not real either?"

He glances away, unable to meet her eyes, unable to lie. "I… I… "

"Thank you. That's all I needed to hear."

The next thing Chuck knows, she is kissing him passionately. "I missed you," she acknowledges as she cradles his face, and he relaxes in relief before sliding her headband off to bury his fingers in her chestnut curls as they continue kissing. Somehow she ends up straddling him, rocking her pelvis against his hardening cock with whimpers of desire.

"Please, Chuck, please. I need you inside me," she breathes as he caresses the column of her throat.

Without pausing, he twists so that she is pressed upright against the leather seats. Fondling one breast through her sweater, he uses his other hand to undo her jeans, sliding the denim down around her ankles. But instead of reaching for his own belt, he parts her thighs and lowers his head, tongue flicking out to taste her creamy wetness.

"Oh my God," Blair sighs, head falling back as he licks again, slower, more deliberate, seeking that sensitive bud hidden within her cleft. And as he finds it, she arches up into his mouth, pressing his face deeper into her center.

"Chuck! Yes, yes!" she calls out after a short while, so enthusiastically that for a moment he stops to grin against her tender flesh before resuming his ministrations and inserting two fingers into her slit. He pumps into her, tongue still swirling, until her head thrashes wildly upon the seats. Her nails dig into his scalp, an exquisite pain he loves as she moans his name and around his fingers, she spasms, muscles contracting, flooding his hand with a rush of new warmth as he continues scissoring into her, lapping at her until the last tremor fades and she slumps against the seats satiated and boneless.

With a gentle kiss on the insides of her thighs, he slips away from her, sitting back on his heels. She smiles at him lazily, her arms hanging useless at her sides. "Chuck Bass you…" her voice trails off, her eyes drifting closed. "Come here," she whispers finally.

He does, crawling over her to nuzzle her neck, breathing in her flowery perfume. She slowly turns her head towards him, seeking a kiss. As his lips meet hers, she moans unexpectedly, letting him know that the taste of herself on his tongue is an erotic treat she wickedly enjoys.

When he tries to draw himself back, she cups the back of his neck with subtle pressure, urging him to stay. Then she is clutching at him again, limbs regaining strength, reaching for his belt.

"Not enough time, princess," he protests, pulling away, sliding her jeans back up her hips. "You're already late."

"Then we'd better be fast," she counters, fingers dipping under his waistband.

He groans, but extracts her hands. "I don't want a quickie," he says. "So run along to Nathaniel's fitting and hurry back so we can have makeup sex worthy of the title."

She pouts slightly, but he can tell she is actually quite pleased as she gives him one last lingering kiss before exiting the limo, her cheeks flushed, her hair in disarray, her headband forgotten.

"Oh, and Blair?" he calls out through the lowering tinted window as she starts to turn away on the curb. "Don't keep me waiting too long, or I might finish without you."

"You wouldn't dare!"

"Wouldn't I?" he smirks, glancing deliberately downwards, drawing her focus to his hand already rubbing his straining erection through his pants. "Best get a move on, Waldorf. Clock's ticking."

"You bastard!" she squeals. Then with a glare that is more amused than angry, she dashes up the street.

As soon as she disappears from view, Chuck taps the partition. "Circle the block," he instructs Arthur. "We'll be picking her back up in a few."

He waits a couple minutes, finally pulling his cell from his pocket and pressing the keys.

– R U With Him Rt Now? –

Satisfied with the message, he presses SEND, and almost immediately, his phone beeps in response.

– Yes. B Back Soon! –

He smiles, typing.

– Ok. Corner. Hurry. I Miss U –

Seconds later, her reply arrives again.

– Already? –

He decides to be completely honest.

– Always –

Laughing, he leans back against the leather upholstery. He doesn't think he has ever been so happy in his entire life. He loves Blair Waldorf, and she is his in everything but name, and even that will be changed eventually, as soon as she admits to her feelings. Things could not be more perfect.

Moments later, the door to the limo opens and she is scrambling inside, breathless and radiant.

"You asshole!" she exclaims, swatting him as he pulls her forward. Still, she allows herself to be drawn into his lap, entwining her fingers in his hair as their lips meet in a searing kiss.

Next she undoes the buttons of his shirt, sliding the garment off his shoulders, as he reaches out to press the intercom. "Arthur, turn the heat up."

"I can keep you warm," she assures him as she explores the planes of his chest.

He grins at her, before pulling her sweater over her head. "And if you get cold?" he counters.

"Well then," she teases, plucking his scarf from the discarded pile of clothes and draping it back around his neck, "Best keep this on. Don't want you to get chilly."

He snorts as she uses the tasseled ends to draw him forward for another kiss. When his hands reach for the snap on her jeans, however, she turns her face away.

"No," she says, pushing him back upon the seats. "I want to return the favor."

"You will be as soon as these are off," he says trying to capture her lips again.

"Not that favor," she clarifies. "This one." And with those words, she slides down between his knees and begins unzipping his trousers.

His eyes widen in surprise. "Blair, you don't have – "

"I know, but I'm going to."

She frees him from the constraints of his pants, and runs her fingers up his shaft experimentally before leaning down. Her breath grazes hot over the smooth skin of his cock, causing his stomach to flex in expectation. Then her mouth lowers over his length, and Chuck has to master a shudder as she begins sucking. She is going slowly, but soon he is breathing heavily. His hand brushes her tousled curls back so he can watch himself glide between her ruby lips. Sensing his gaze, she raises her eyes to meet him, and _winks_. It is all he can do to keep himself from losing it right then and there.

How is this happening? This is _Blair_ _Waldorf_. On her knees. In his limo. Giving him head. _Him_. Chuck Bass. Even in his wildest fantasies, he has never imagined this. And oh sweet Jesus, it feels incredible. There is just something so _wrong_ about her doing this to him, about her _wanting_ to do this to him even, that makes it all the more arousing.

He throws back his head in abandon, fingers tightening reflexively in her hair, and she moans low in her throat, the vibrations traveling into his dick, pushing him to the edge.

"If you don't want me to cum in your mouth, you need to stop!" he gasps, barely managing to hold back.

"You better not, Bass," she admonishes as her tongue circles the swollen head of his cock. "You have more stamina than that."

"Blair…" he groans through clench teeth as her lips descend again. "I am _not_ kidding!"

"Okay, fine," she says, sliding away from him. He closes his eyes, breathing raggedy, willing his pulse to slow, and ignoring that ache in his loins screaming for imminent release.

"What was it you said before Chuck? Don't keep me waiting?" she whispers several long moments later, her voice a seductive dare.

He glances at her, and what he sees stops his heart. She is reclined on the seats opposite, her jeans and panties gone, naked thighs spread invitingly. Lazily, she runs a hand down her body, the fingers swirling around one erect nipple, skimming her belly, and delving into the triangle of curls between her legs with a sinful twist of lips.

For a second, all he can do is stare transfixed, the saliva drying in his mouth as he watches her pleasure herself. Then, he is searching like mad amongst the discarded clothes for his jacket and the foil packet he keeps hidden in the inner pocket.

Once he has it on, he positions himself between her legs and enters her liquid core in one short effortless stroke. She moans as their bodies join, and when he starts to withdraw she looks at him with unabashed lust, sees his eyes darkened to jet black pools, his lips unconsciously curled into the slightest of snarls, thinly held restraint radiating off him dangerously. His whole body is tense, his expression terribly raw.

"Fuck me, Bass," she whispers, a command.

And with a harsh intake of breath, his control snaps. He thrusts into her so fiercely, the impact is jarring, their bodies slamming together again and again. He knows he cannot possibly last like this, but from her increasingly frantic cries, neither can she. And it feels so good to take her this way, burying himself repeatedly within her center. So unbelievably good, the world contracting, narrowing until the only thing left is this, just this.

Screams of pleasure beneath him. Nails raking down his back. Teeth in his shoulder. Sheath convulsing exquisitely. But he doesn't slow down, doesn't stop. Can't stop. Can't see. Can't breathe. No thoughts. No worries. No hesitancy. Nothing but instinct. Need. Harder. Faster. Deeper. Close. _Close_. _Harder_. _Faster_.

And then with a shout wrenched from the depths of his soul, he explodes, climaxing so strongly all else ceases to be.

When he comes back to himself, he finds her still below him, eyes nearly closed, a languid smile on her lips. "Welcome back," she murmurs amused before he kisses her, savoring the way she moulds herself to him, as if the smallest space between them is too much.

Eventually, they separate, pulling their clothes back on. He hisses slightly as the fabric of his shirt brushes against the scratches on his back.

Blair winces at his reaction, knowing she is responsible. "I'm sorry," she says.

Chuck shakes her apology away. "Don't be. I'm not."

Still, she looks chagrined. "You bring out the worst in me."

He groans with faux annoyance. "I believe 'worst' is a relative term," he tells her as his mouth meets hers again. "I would call it your best."

"You would, you _monster_," she jokes against his lips, failing to catch the way his eyes snap open, fear flickering momentarily within their depths.

"Like you don't enjoy it?" he says, pulling away suddenly, his voice strangely toneless. Her brow furrows slightly, sensing something is off, but then he leers at her and she shoves him playfully.

"Smug bastard," she laughs.

He smirks weakly, pulling her down for one last kiss before she can notice. "See you tomorrow princess."

"Tomorrow," she repeats, beaming as she steps out of the limo onto the sidewalk in front of her building.

"And Blair? You should wear the necklace I gave you to the cotillion."

"I'll think about it."

Knowing she _will_ wear the necklace, Chuck returns to the Palace Hotel content, with only a mild sense of worry intruding occasionally in upon his thoughts.

"…_you monster_."

He pushes the memory of her words away. She hadn't meant it like that, he reminds himself. She doesn't _see_ him like that.

He walks through the main lobby, and spots Nate.

Shit.

Chuck tries to avoid the golden boy, but Nathaniel catches a glimpse of him before he can retreat. He is forced to talk to him, listening to Nate complain about Blair seeing someone else and requesting that Chuck find out who it is, a request he agrees to with supreme _irony_.

The next morning, Chuck arrives at the Waldorf residence, eager to share this new development with Blair, knowing it will amuse her as much as it does him. But he discovers her in talks with a reporter from the Times, telling him how _wonderful_ her date Nate Archibald is.

And while Chuck has promised himself he will no longer be jealous of her attending the ball with Nathaniel, at this moment, hearing her say those things, he cannot repress his anger.

He strides up to the reporter, introducing himself, and decides to share some tidbits about the _not-so-wonderful_ Nate Archibald.

"I'd just like to say how _proud_ I am of Miss Waldorf and her commitment to Mister Archibald," he begins. "Even though he _ruined_ her seventeenth birthday and _slept_ wi – "

Blair stomps on his foot with her stiletto heels, effectively silencing him. "Thank you! That was great, right?" she beams at the reporter, clearly indicating the interview is over.

"Take care," the reporter says, taking the hint and moving towards the elevator.

"Alright. Have a good one," she calls after him. Once he has disappeared she turns livid eyes back to Chuck. "What was that?" she spits.

His temper rises to meet hers. "I should ask you the same question. Perfect _gentleman_? Perfect _date_? That broken record was a hit last year. Get with the times. He _bores_ you," Chuck sneers.

"You almost made a fool of me in front of the New York Times!" she snaps back. "Which proves my very point, _you_ can't be trusted. Nate _is_ a gentleman. He would never cause a scene."

"Never get your blood going either," he leers.

"Speaking of _going_, that's what you should do," she orders, shoving him away. "Carter Baizen is on his way here right now."

"What?" Chuck asks, incredulous. "What the hell are you doing with Carter Baizen?"

If that scum…

"He left his jacket here yesterday and I'd rather you be gone when he got here. There's been enough _scenes_ for today."

She stalks away, leaving him standing in her foyer, seething with rage.

Nate a perfect gentleman who would never cause a scene? The guy who had fucked her best friend? Who had broken up with her and made out with some random blonde the next night, the eve of her birthday party, getting photos of the hookup splashed all over Gossip Girl before the breakup even went public? The same bastard who had almost gotten back together with her only because his family needed the business deal with her mother?

How the _fuck_ does that make Nathaniel a better date than Chuck Bass? He has _never_ done anything to hurt her so _severely_, so _thoroughly_, or so _often_. And yet _he_ is the one who would cause a scene? Who can't be trusted?

Fuck her!

She wants to overlook all the times Nate has been a total douche bag? Great. Just fine. See if Chuck gives a shit. But if she thinks for one moment that she is getting a perfect gentleman tonight, she is _wrong_. She doesn't want her date to embarrass her? Too damn bad. He will make certain that her precious Nathaniel is anything besides gentlemanly, and someone who will definitely cause a scene! Then Chuck can sweep in, an _actual_ perfect gentleman and rescue her from social embarrassment and all will be well. He will never have to be made to feel like he is less than Nate ever again.

And to arrange everything is so shockingly simple. She has given him the very method to do it. All he has to do is hide in his limo and wait to capture some pictures of Carter entering Blair's building. Send the photos to Gossip Girl, and presto, Nate will think Blair is seeing Carter. A well placed comment to Nathaniel during the first dance at the cotillion should provoke the golden boy into attacking Carter, getting Nate thrown out, leaving Blair dateless until Chuck waltzes in, and then she is his. Mission accomplished.

And if Carter's nose breaks in the process, so much the better.

It happens almost as planned too. Except Nate doesn't hit Carter nearly hard enough in Chuck's opinion, and then when Chuck takes Blair into his arms to dance, he is too pleased with himself. Too confident. She realizes what he has done. And she is _not_ pleased. Not at all.

"You're enjoying this," she accuses as he begins gliding her across the floor. "You knew Carter was going to my house. You tipped off Gossip Girl. You ruined my cotillion on purpose." She drops his arms, stepping away from him. "You did all this for your own enjoyment and didn't care what it would do to me, which is exactly why you and I can never work!"

"Please, slow down there Waldorf," he says, realizing that this _perhaps_ was not the best plan to win her affections.

"You make me sick," she spits, shoving him away when he tries to touch her again. "This thing between us? It's over. For good." With that she turns and starts to walk off the floor.

"Blair wait! I didn't mean – " he rushes to say, grabbing her hand.

She jerks away. "Don't talk to me!"

"Blair!" he calls after her, and then she is running.

He follows her of course, but he does not run. And for the rest of his life, he will regret that.

When he finally catches up, climbing the marble staircase where she had fled, he feels like something inside him shatters.

There she is, at the top of the stairs, in Nathaniel's arms, kissing the golden boy with fervor, her hands all over him. And Chuck is forced to watch his best friend wink slyly at him with a leer, as if to say 'thanks for helping me win her back.'

He cannot _breathe_. He cannot _see_. He cannot _stop_.

With no recollection of how he got there, he finds himself back in his suite. He throws his luggage open onto the bed. He changes into the first articles of clothing his hands touch, and then he rips things indiscriminately from their hangers, tossing sweaters and slacks and shirts and scarves and shorts and socks, _everything_ his fingers blindly come in contact with into the suitcases. It is a jumbled mess, and all of it will have to be steamed or ironed or pressed, but he doesn't care.

He zips the bags, dragging them to the elevator and out to the street himself rather than ring for a bellboy. The limo is already there, waiting. Had he ordered it? Is this how he got home?

No matter.

"Where to Mister Bass?" Arthur asks, taking the luggage from him.

"The airport," he replies, having no idea beyond that. He'll decide later, when he gets there. For now, he just has to get away. Away from _here_. Away from _her_. Away from _them_.

Them.

Oh God.

He climbs in, his chauffer shutting the door behind him. The interior is quiet. So deathly quiet.

"_Did you honestly think she would want a monster like you over Nathaniel, Chucky?_"

A fleeting thought, whispered insidiously through his head. But this time the voice does _not_ belong to Georgina. It's _his_. Entirely his.

And there in the back of the limo, before he even realizes he is doing it, in that space that he had considered sacred since that first hesitant kiss with Blair the night before she turned seventeen, Chuck Bass starts to cry.


	24. Chapter 24

_Tell me what I'm supposed to do_

_With all these leftover feelings of you_

'_Cause I don't know_

_And tell me how I'm supposed to feel_

_When all these nightmares become real_

'_Cause I don't know_

-Rise Against-

Ignore it, Bass. Be strong. It'll be done soon.

Only five more.

Don't touch it. Don't even look at it.

Four.

Probably just a wrong number anyway.

Three.

But what if it's her? What if… No! No, who _cares_ if it's her? Screw her!

Two.

Don't you dare answer it you pussy!

One.

Oh fuck! Hurry. Please hurry.

The shrill ringing stops.

Silence. Blissful silence. He's done it. Again. Thank God.

He allows himself to pick up the cell, glancing at the caller ID.

-BLAIR-

Slumping back against the blankets, Chuck lets out the breath he was unconsciously holding.

Why does she keep calling him like this?

But he _knows_. Even before the beep indicates he has a new voicemail, he knows. Resignedly, he taps a button and raises the phone to his ear.

"Chuck?" Blair's exasperated words over the line. "You are not answering my calls to torture me I am sure. But please for the love of God do not tell anybody about us, okay? Please. Please!"

A soft click as the message ends, followed by the automated response, "To replay this mess – "

He immediately pushes a key, closing his eyes, concentrating this time on her voice and not on what she is saying. "Chuck? You are not answering my calls to…"

He misses her.

He shouldn't. He knows he shouldn't. But he does. Oh sweet Jesus, he does.

But from her increasingly frantic calls and texts about how he absolutely _cannot_ tell Nate about their brief romantic interlude, it does not look like she feels the same way. Each message cuts him deeper than the last, and while he realizes erasing them unheard would stop them from wounding him, he isn't able to do that. He can't. Not yet. Eventually, he will, but at the moment he can only fight one battle with himself, and not answering his phone trumps not listening to his voicemail.

"…anybody about us, okay? Please. Please!" Click. "To replay th – "

Another press of a button.

"Chuck? You are not answering…"

He is holding the cell so hard that his knuckles are white. A lump forms in his throat, tension radiating across his shoulders. He blinks, eyes burning. "Goddamn it," he mutters, snapping the phone shut and resisting the urge to throw it at the wall, smashing it to pieces so he can't torment himself this way anymore.

Get a grip, Bass. Like the book says, she's just not that into you. It isn't the end of the world. She's only a girl. A bitch of a girl at that. Nothing special. Dime a dozen. Plenty more where she came from.

But if that's true then why, _why_ does this hurt so damned much?

Had their time together meant that little to her? Had he just been a distraction until Nate came to his senses? It seems now like she had wanted the golden boy back all along, and Chuck had only been fooling himself into thinking she had started to care for him. She didn't. Never had. Never would. She had used him, and he had willingly let her because he… He thought…

What? That she would love him eventually? That they were destined to be? That he'd marry her?

Pipe dreams.

It doesn't matter now, anyway. It's done. _They're_ done. She made that very clear. She'd accused him of not thinking about what ruining her cotillion would do to her, and he'll freely admit she was correct. He had not thought about it, mostly because he had not seen his actions as _ruining_ anything. He had only been _relieving_ her of a date unworthy of her time and attention, and supplying her with a better one.

But she… She had known _precisely_ what her revenge would do to him. She had to have known. There was no way she had chosen to go back to Nate by accident. It was premeditated. Chuck would bet his life that she had done what she had fully intending to hurt him in the most brutal way possible.

Heartless bitch.

Whoever said it was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all was full of crap! It is not better. Why would anyone want to fall in love if this is the end result? He wants no part of it. Fuck _love_. Fuck _romance_. Fuck _women_.

Yes…

Fuck women, exactly. One in particular. With chestnut curls and chocolate eyes. Who smells of magnolias and has a fondness for headbands. Fuck her!

Or rather, fuck _with_ her. Make her pay. Remind her who she is dealing with.

No one _uses_ Chuck Bass.

And yet, if she apologized, he would take her back. Would do so gladly. He _wants_ her back. Secretly wishes she will call and say she is sorry, that she chooses him over Nathaniel. If she did that, he would take her back without reservations. Hell, if she called and _didn't_ mention how he needs to keep mum about their previous relationship, he might forgive her anyway. He is not proud of that, is quite ashamed of it, actually. He should have more self-respect. But with her, it is like he has none, although he would rather die than let her know that.

Already he has had to lock up his phone in the safe at night to ensure that he doesn't drunk dial her in a moment of weakness, doesn't beg to be given another chance, doesn't throw himself on her mercy and take full responsibility for something that was not entirely his fault. She may have stripped him of his pride, and his feelings for her might override all his common sense, but he is still a Bass, damn it, and Bass men do not abase themselves in such ways. Not for anyone, and especially not for her.

But when his cell rings again, before he can suppress the urge, his hand closes over it, snapping it open. "Hello?" he answers, hopes surging within him, his voice sounding terribly young.

"Finally!" Nate exclaims.

Just great. The _other_ person he has avoided talking to.

"I've been trying to reach you since the cotillion," Nathaniel continues without pause. "I have to thank you man."

"There's _no_ need. Trust me," Chuck replies. He has to end this conversation. Right away. If he doesn't, Nate might confirm what he already fears, what he is fairly certain of since he sent one text to Blair and she did not deny it, what he doesn't ever want to know for sure beyond that.

"But there is," Nathaniel gloats. Chuck can practically hear his friend's grin through the phone. "Not only did you help me win her back that night, but we sealed the deal too!"

And there it is. The information Chuck never desired to have. Long suspected, but still blindsiding him with its absolute finality. He'd held out hope, foolish though it was, thinking if he did not hear it, it couldn't be true, and now he doesn't even have that vain fantasy to comfort him. Nothing remains except stark reality. Little more than twenty-four hours after sleeping with him, she had slept with Nate, had ran from one set of arms to another.

That fucking whore.

"You…" Chuck swallows, forcing himself to breathe past the sudden vice around his chest. "You did? Congratulations."

"Yeah. She thought it was hot that I punched Carter and well, you saw. She was all over me!" Nate boasts, his very words making Chuck want to vomit. "Then it just happened, and it was so… I mean, mind-blowing. You have no idea. "

If only he knew.

"I have had sex before, Nathaniel," Chuck grimaces, climbing off the bed to pad over to the wet bar. He is so not drunk enough for this discussion.

"Not like this," Nate assures him. "She was a _virgin_, man! So tight and wet and – "

"I get the gist," Chuck grinds out, clutching the counter to keep from screaming. "You can spare me the play by play."

Please, God. Nate hadn't said a single damn word about Serena! Why does he have to over-share about Blair? Please, let this stop. Please, please…

Not taking the hint, the golden boy laughs smugly. "But I haven't told you the best part."

Don't ask. Don't say it. Don't…

"Oh? And what's that?" Chuck whispers, despairing of his friend's response even as he utters the question.

"Get this! I totally got her off!"

Chuck's jaw tenses so hard he thinks his teeth might crack. "You what?"

"She came!" Nate explains. "She told me I made her cum. Her first time, too! Isn't that wild?"

"Yeah… wild," Chuck repeats, the corner of his mouth twitching sardonically.

He had thought if Nate slept with Blair, it would sicken him, but how very wrong he was in that assumption. It isn't making him sick. It's killing him! But at least he can take grim satisfaction in something. If she'd had to inform Nate that she'd had an orgasm, she hadn't had one. Blair in the throes of release was impossible to misinterpret. Even one as inexperienced as Nathaniel could not have mistaken it for anything other than pent up ecstasy exploding from within her.

It was breathtaking to _see_, incredible to _feel_, transcendent to _share_.

And her precious Prince Charming had not brought her there. Only he had, and oh how that must have galled her, if Nate had even bothered to rev her up enough to feel frustrated at being denied fulfillment.

Imagining it, his lips twist into an acidic smile. It may be petty, but he is not above taking enjoyment in knowing that in this one thing, he is Nate's superior. He is going to make certain she never forgets it either.

Oblivious, Nathaniel keeps talking. "So where have you been? Have you not gotten my texts?"

"My phone service has been a bit… spotty since I went abroad," Chuck lies.

"Yeah? Where'd you go? Anyplace cool?"

"Monaco. Sun, surf and supermodels. What better way to celebrate the giving season?" he says, reclining back upon his mattress, scotch in hand. He hasn't left this darkened hotel room since he arrived a week ago.

"Lucky bastard," Nate sighs. "Monaco sounds much better than here. It is freezing."

Unexpectedly, jealousy flares within Chuck. "But at least you have Blair there to keep you warm," he snaps, quite a bit harsher than he intended.

Nathaniel doesn't notice. "Hardly," he groans. "I've been in Connecticut. My mom and I left the day after the ball. Annual Vanderbilt Christmas gathering, you know."

"Yes," Chuck mutters, relieved that Blair and Nate are not with one another at the moment. Now if he can only find a way to keep them apart. "And how _is_ Grandfather?" he inquires mechanically, various schemes already forming in his brain.

"How come when you say that word, it sounds like you mean the mafia?"

"Because I've _met_ your grandfather," Chuck jokes, only half kidding.

.

"Right," Nate snorts. "That you have."

"Still intimidating as ever?"

"Worse," Nathaniel confesses. "He keeps asking about my future in a way that makes me think he has the whole thing planned out. I'll be grateful when I get on the train back to Manhattan tonight."

"Going to skip out on the family festivities? Cowardly, Archibald. Very cowardly," Chuck teases.

With an amused exhalation, Nathaniel ignores the jibe. "Yeah, well I said I would rescue Blair from the boredom of her mother's party," he admits.

Not if Chuck has anything to do with it. "And who's going to save you?" he asks, seizing his opportunity.

"What do you mean?"

"Come on," he jeers. "The Waldorf family Christmas? It sounds dreadful."

"Yeah, but..."

"But nothing," Chuck stresses. "You should join me instead."

"In Monaco?"

"Hell yes in Monaco! What better way to say happy holidays than with beaches, bikinis, and your best friend?"

Nate demurs. "I wish I could, man. I really do, but Blair made me – "

"Since when do you let Blair order you around?" Chuck scowls.

"She isn't ordering," Nathaniel denies. "I _want_ to spend – "

"_You_ want?" Chuck mocks. "Are you _hearing_ yourself? You are so whipped, my friend."

"It isn't like that," Nate argues.

"Yes, it is. You got laid once and suddenly you're Blair's little bitch boy."

"I am not!" Nate cries, more than a touch annoyed.

Chuck calls his bluff. "Prove it," he dares rapidly.

"Fine!" Nate retorts.

"Great. I'll have the Bass jet prepped and waiting for you," Chuck counters smoothly, and before Nathaniel can fully comprehend what he has just agreed to, Chuck hangs up.

Sometimes manipulation is just too easy.

The next afternoon, when Nate arrives, Chuck greets him in the hotel lobby looking fresh and rejuvenated, the complete opposite of how he feels. "Welcome to Monaco!"

Nathaniel nods, impressed. "Wow! This is nice. It's perfect"

Yes, more perfect than he will ever suspect.

"Let's hit the pool," Chuck suggests.

"Sure," Nate agrees. "But I really should call Blair first. I didn't tell her I wasn't coming last night."

"You change," Chuck insists. "I'll talk to Blair."

"I'm not sure that's – "

"Nathaniel, you know her," Chuck points out before his friend can protest further. "She's going to be pissed, and the second you get her on that phone she is going to guilt trip you until you decide to go back to Manhattan. So let me handle her because I didn't fly you out here just so you could turn around and leave, and I don't care if Blair gets angry at me. Okay?"

"You don't mind?" Nate asks.

Chuck fights to keep from shouting in victory. "Not at all," he says, pulling out his phone.

Nathaniel claps him on the back and heads up to their room to drop off his luggage, as Chuck pretends to dial until he disappears from view. Once he is gone, Chuck drops the pretense.

Beyond simple.

A short time later, Nate returns wearing his bathing suit. "That was fast!" he comments, seeing Chuck finishing a martini and not in conversation with Blair. "How did you manage that? She'd still be chewing me out."

"We have a special bond," he shrugs nonchalantly. "And I might have mentioned that you're getting her something fabulous while you are here."

Nate shakes his head. "Thanks man. I owe you one."

"Don't even worry about it. The pleasure is all mine," Chuck replies. Stepping closer to Nathaniel, he holds up his phone. "Smile," he instructs, taking a photo of them together.

"What's the picture for?"

"To commemorate the start of our vacation," Chuck tells him. "Now, go! Swim. I'll be there in a moment."

Without further encouragement, Nate grins and goes bounding towards the water like a puppy. Chuck watches him depart, waiting until his friend is thoroughly distracted by a bevy of beautiful women, before typing a message into his cell.

– Don't worry, B. Who would I Tell? –

Attaching the snapshot, he sends the text and strolls over to get another drink from the poolside bar. A couple minutes pass, and he thinks that perhaps he hadn't been overt enough with his implied threat. But then his mobile rings and he answers it with a triumphant flick of his wrist. "Hello princess," he leers, voice laden with innuendo.

"Chuck, I don't know what kind of game – "

"Here's how this is going to work, Waldorf," he sneers suddenly, cutting her off mid-threat. "I'm flying back in seven days. I'll be at my suite by 9 pm. I expect to see you when I get there. The front desk will let you in. Contact Nathaniel between now and then, and I will make certain you regret it. Understand?"

She is silent for a long moment. "I… I hate you!" she hisses finally.

He compresses his lips, flinching slightly at the pain those words cause. Soon, he reminds himself. Soon they won't hurt him ever again. "Have a merry Christmas, Blair."

"Go to hell, you – "

He hangs up, ending her tirade with a self-satisfied smirk.

Some call it blackmail. He calls it bonding.


	25. Chapter 25

_What I want from this is learn to let go_

_No not of you, of all that's been told_

_Killers reinvent and believe_

_And it leans on me like a rootless…_

_So fuck you, fuck you, fuck you_

_And all we've been through_

_I said leave it, leave it, leave it_

_It's nothing to you_

_And if you hate me, hate me, hate me_

_Then hate me so good that you can let me out, let me out_

_Let me out of this hell when you're around_

-Damien Rice-

"Waldorf, what a pleasant surprise," Chuck greets, strolling into his suite the day after New Years, finding Blair standing in the middle of the room looking very annoyed.

"This isn't a social call, Bass. As you are well aware," she huffs.

Her anger is so cute. "No need to be nasty," he answers. "Sit down. Let me get you a beverage. Did you have a nice winter break?"

"Cut the friendly host routine, Chuck. We both know why I am here. You didn't exactly leave me much choice."

"No, I suppose I didn't, did I?" he grins. "Now, about that drink?"

"Enough," she orders. "Just get to the point. I don't have all night."

"It's enough when I say it's enough," he says softly, the threat all the more pronounced for it. "So I suggest you make yourself comfortable. It's going to be a while."

With an exasperated sound, she throws herself down upon the leather couch, as he fights to keep from mocking her petulance. He ignores the overdramatic complaints she keeps making as he proceeds to the wet bar and mixes a couple drinks. That done, he joins her on the sofa, offering her one of the glasses he is holding. "Gin martini," he tells her. "Three olives. Extra dirty. Your personal favorite."

"Can we hurry this along?" she asks, setting the drink down without sipping it. "I have plans with Nate later."

Chuck's lips compress into a thin line, and he sets his martini beside hers. "And how do you figure that?" he inquires. "I know he hasn't bothered calling you all week. Very considerate of him, by the way."

"You were probably responsible for that too," she announces. "In addition to dragging him off to Monaco!"

"Yes, and it wasn't even that hard either," he boasts. "Really, I was shocked by how simple it was to get your white knight to completely blow you off. Guess the sex must have been pretty subpar."

"It was not subpar, and how would you know anyways?" she demands.

"Please," he scoffs. "I've heard all about your first time with Nathaniel. He was quite forthcoming about it actually. I thought that strange, since he never said anything about being with Serena, but then guys do like to keep the details of the truly special ones to themselves."

"You bastard!" she exclaims, attempting to slap him.

He dodges, capturing her wrists. "What's the matter, Waldorf? Bit too close for comfort? Or does the truth hurt?"

"I am special! Nate loves me."

Chuck nods patronizingly. "Then why did he dash across the world to be with me instead of spending the holidays with you?"

On the coffee table in front of them, a ring sounds from within her purse. She jerks away from him, pulling the cell from the bag with a triumphant grin. "See?" she gloats, showing him the name on the screen. "He _does_ love me."

Chuck's eyes darken with jealousy. "I'll let you in on a secret," he sneers, indicating the mobile in her palm. "That isn't love Blair. That's a booty call."

"I'm sure you know all about those, but Nate is a gentleman," she smirks, starting to answer the phone.

Before she can, however, Chuck snatches it from her hand. "Right, so deciding to contact you now that you are near enough to screw and not on another continent is just coincidental?" he points out as she tries to grab the cell back.

"You did something to him in Monaco!" she accuses. "You kept him from calling me!"

"Perhaps, but if it is love, should I have been able to? Shouldn't hearing your voice be more important than appeasing a best friend?" he taunts, tossing the device across the room onto his bed.

"Nate's only friends with you out of habit," she cries, struggling to chase after it, but held in place on the sofa by Chuck's arms.

"And he's only back with you for the same reason," he snarls, trying to avoid her kicking feet. "And because he was drawn to your glow. The one _I_ gave you. How long do you think that allure will last now that I'm not making you see stars every day? Your attraction will fade, you'll become the same frigid bitch you always were, and Nathaniel will realize his mistake in dating you again."

"It isn't a mistake!" she glares as the ringing stops. "And my glow will not fade! Nate will give me one, ten times stronger than you ever did!"

Chuck relaxes his grip on her somewhat, and immediately regrets it when she tears free to punch him in the shoulder. "Not going to happen," he winces. "He'd have to be more than satisfying your needs to do so, and I can tell he isn't. You've got some serious pent up frustration."

"Not that it's any of your business," she jeers, "But Nate and I have an amazing sex life."

He snorts. "You don't have a sex life. You two fucked once, and only once."

"We made love, and it was incredible," she corrects.

"Is that so?" he drawls, gaze narrowing. "Then what names did he call you when you made love?" he asks, leaning forward, invading her space, forcing her to meet his eyes. Electricity crackles between them. "Where did he put his hand? Did he…" His voice dips low, becoming a seductive caress as his fingers trace her jaw, tucking her curls behind one ear so he can whisper into it. "Did he make you beg for it, princess? Did you scream his name as you pulled him deeper inside you?"

At her shiver, he lowers his head, grazing her neck with his lips, feeling her racing pulse beneath the thin skin there. She purrs at the touch, her chin rising to give him fuller access, nails kneading gently upon his chest. "Chuck," she sighs.

"Nate's hasn't seen the real you, and he never will," he concludes, drawing away from her, cocking one brow arrogantly.

She blinks in confusion for a moment, then scowls at his pleased expression. "How dare you touch me like that!" she spits.

He laughs. "You can drop the offended virgin act, I know you better."

"You don't know me at all," she declares, tone frosty.

"I know you well enough to realize I could have just taken you on this couch and you would have let me," he replies smugly. "What's more, you would have loved every second of it.''

Her mouth drops. "I would not!" she snaps, a challenge in her voice.

Hearing it, he responds accordingly. "So if I reached under that little skirt right now I wouldn't find you wet and ready?" he inquires with a wicked glint in his eyes.

She grimaces. "You're disgusting."

He smiles wider. "Yes I am, and it excites you. So why be shy?"

"You're wrong." She shakes her head, chestnut hair swinging loose. "You don't excite me, because I don't want you at all."

"Yes, you do," he counters. "That's why you wore thigh highs here. Because you know how much I enjoy them since they take twice as long to remove."

Guardedly, she smoothes her skirt down. "I am not," she denies. "You're delusional."

"I'm also in the mood to be right," he retorts, flicking her hem up before she can stop him, exposing one black lace garter. His mouth twitches in amused victory. "Wonder what else I'm right about."

She swallows as his fingers creep slowly beneath the fabric, running along her upper leg, her knees spreading ever so slightly, a silent invitation to continue. Higher and higher his hand wanders, as he looks at her face, her parted lips, the way her eyelids flutter shut as his knuckles brush her underwear.

"Right again," he leers, cupping her through the damp silk. "You're drenched."

Her breath catches in her throat. "Chuck," she groans, the word barely audible as his thumb strokes the soaked material. He slides closer, nipping her earlobe lightly.

"Does Nate make you feel this way?" he asks, while his tongue laps at her collarbone.

"No," she admits.

"Only I do, right?"

"Yes." The smallest whimper.

He presses his palm more firmly against her center. "Why?"

"Chuck… Chuck!" she moans at the increased friction.

"Are you close princess?"

"Oh God, yes! Yes!" she pants.

"Very close?" he murmurs at her throat, fingers dipping under the edge of her panties, delving into her slick folds, plunging in the wet heat.

"Please, please, Chuck!" she pants, bucking into his hand.

"If you want to cum, tell me why?" he commands.

"Please, Chuck, take me. Take me, please," she begs.

"Three words. Eight letters," he explains. "Say it and I'm yours."

She undulates against the leather upholstery. "I want you."

He thrusts harder. "Not those three words."

"I need you," she sobs.

"Guess again."

"I… I…" she gasps, head thrown back, spine bowing, her whole body tensing. A second before she climaxes, he withdraws his hand, effectively denying her release. "What the _fuck_, Bass!"

"Say it. Admit you care for me."

"I… I don't," she claims.

"Liar!"

"Three words? Eight letters? How's this? I hate you!" she yells.

"Not precisely the phrase I was looking for," he grinds out, pulling away from her.

She stands, stomping over to the bed to retrieve her phone. "Well it is the only one you're getting," she calls over her shoulder. "I hate you. You took advantage of me. You almost made me cheat on Nate."

"Please, you knew exactly what you were doing," he states, temper flaring. "You came here deliberately dressed to turn me on, and let's not mince words here. I doubt anyone would call you humping my hand 'almost' cheating."

"That was your fault entirely! You made me – "

He cuts her off with a bitter laugh. "I didn't make you do anything. You were just you, and I was just me. Don't you see we're the same? We're meant to be. Stop trying to fight it."

"I will fight until my last dying breath because any resemblance to you is something I would hate about myself," she shrieks. "You are an awful person. You do terrible things. You use people!"

Chuck glowers at her. "And you think you're any different? You and I both know you just used Nate to try to hurt me like I hurt you."

"You didn't hurt me!" she says, crossing her arms protectively over her chest.

"Bullshit!" he roars.

"And I didn't use Nate!" she sneers as she storms towards the exit. "I love Nate!"

"You love the _idea_ of Nate," he counters, following her. "Not Nate himself."

"I do too!" she retorts. "Nate is safe, and easy, and open. Everything you are not!"

"Yeah, because I'm dangerous, and difficult, and deceptive. But guess what, Waldorf? You _need_ that. It makes you feel alive."

"I don't need anything from you ever again!" she declares. "Nate will give me what I want."

"No, he won't," he taunts. "Because you don't really want him anymore than he wants you."

"Shut up!" she cries. "You don't know a thing about it!"

"I know that Nathaniel will never make you as hot and bothered as you are right now."

"Well maybe I'll just imagine he's you!" she threatens, turning from him, grasping the doorknob.

Chuck's jaw tenses, and he bangs his hand on the door to prevent it from opening, pressing into her back. "Understand this Blair," he snarls against her neck. "If you allow Nate to touch you, if you share so much as a kiss, I will hear about it, and if I do, I will tell him what really happened the night you two broke up. I'll explain exactly how I know you have a weakness for limos."

Her hips arch unbidden into his evident arousal. "You won't dare. He wouldn't be your friend anymore if he knew."

He spins her around roughly, wrapping his arms around her as a small whimper of desire escapes her throat. "Some things are worth the risk," he breathes, eyes burning with intensity searching her face, his mouth hovering over hers.

"Chuck," she whispers, lips parting.

He smirks at her reaction. "Nathaniel will _never_ be me!" he growls harshly, stepping back from her abruptly, causing her to stumble. "Now get the hell out."

"I don't want him to be you," she spits, stepping into the hallway. "I love him because he _isn't_ you!"

"Keep telling yourself that princess!" he shouts before slamming the door in her outraged face.

Fucking bitch!

Breathing raggedly, he storms over to his bed, flopping upon the mattress. His cock is throbbing so hard, he can barely see straight. With a curse, he shoves his trousers down, freeing himself from the tight constraint. Lids closing, his fingers curl around his length, stroking rapidly, imagining her riding him, head tilted back in abandon.

Up, down, up, down.

Her perfect breasts. Her teeth in his shoulder. Her fingers in his hair.

Up, down, up, down.

The way she moans. Her sheath convulsing. His name on her lips.

And then with a harsh cry, he shudders, hips lifting as he spurts hot and heavy into his opposite palm. Gasping, he relaxes back into the blankets, envisioning the soft expression on her face when she is satiated, the way she always kisses him tenderly afterwards.

"I will stand by you through anything," she promises.

He nuzzles her neck. "And why would you do that?"

Blair smiles, warm and radiant. "Because… I love you."

Chuck's eyes spring open, staring at the ceiling in his suite. Dick now limp, hands still sticky. He must have dozed for a second.

He gets up, making his way to the bathroom to wash off. Stripping his out of clothes, he steps into the shower, his lips curving slightly as he remembers the last moment of his dream.

She will say those words to him. If it is the last thing he does, he will make her say them.

Because if he cannot have her, no one will.

**A/N:** I have been getting a lot of comments wondering if this story is going to strictly follow season one, or become AU. The answer is yes, and no. As you have no doubt ascertained by now, I have been weaving in and out of the events of the first season. Playing fast and loose with it, as it were. But we are quickly approaching the time where the C/B storyline takes a backseat to other plots. Not so in my world. Finally, a certain Evil in Eyeliner will shortly be returning to the Upper East Side to torment Serena, and do you honestly believe she isn't going to pay her favorite plaything a visit as well? Hopefully that answers your questions without giving too much away.


	26. Chapter 26

_Your subtleties, they strangle me_

_I can't explain myself at all_

_And all the wants and all the needs_

_All I don't want to need at all_

_The walls start breathing, my mind's unweaving_

_Maybe it's best you leave me alone_

- All-American Rejects -

The best thing about wearing sunglasses is that they hide the direction you are actually looking. So long as your head is turned towards someone, they assume you are watching them. Like this girl in front of him now. Pretty, brunette, svelte. Totally his type, and yet not. Not at all. Because _she_ is not _her_. The one he keeps staring at while pretending to converse with this other chick.

He nods as if interested in what's leaving her mouth, but he could care less. Behind the dark glasses, his gaze focuses on the pool. _She's_ there, frolicking in the water, her wet hair falling like a sleek black curtain down her back. He is tempted to get closer, but like so many other things, he does _not_ swim. Swimming requires removing more clothes in public than he is comfortable with. Stripping down to shorts and a tank top is quite enough exposed skin, thank you very much. Plus, from his vantage point in the lifeguard chair, he has a great view of her and those scraps of fabric some designer is calling a bikini.

Not a bad deal.

The corner of his mouth twitches, and the bimbo touches his forearm, laughing, thinking he's responding to something she's said. He isn't, but he does glance at her. An amused expression lights up his face as he revels in his recent discovery.

Their outfits _match_. His and Blair's. Both crimson and white, although he has stripes instead of polka dots, but then one doesn't find polka dots that often in menswear. He knows. He's looked. But that aside, if they were to stand next to each other right now, they would look like a color coordinated pair, and he hadn't even had to plan it.

How perfect is that?

He'll have to make sure someone snaps a picture of them together.

His eyes flick back to the pool, but she is no longer there. He tenses fractionally, scanning the area quickly for signs of Nathaniel. If she's with him –

But no. There he is. Alone. Good. But where did she –

"Enough with the blackmail!" Blair spits from right next to him. His taunt shoulders relax, but he doesn't acknowledge she has spoken. "Aren't you bored already?" When he still ignores her, she hits his arm like a petulant child. "I can't avoid Nate forever."

With a sigh, Chuck removes his sunglasses. "Excuse me," he murmurs to the girl who goes to his school but whose name he can't be bothered to remember. When she walks off, he turns indulgently to Blair. "I didn't say forever," he drawls. "Just until the sight of the two of you together doesn't turn my stomach."

In other words? Never.

Blare fumes, radiating annoyance. "And when will that be?"

"Only time will tell I'm afraid," he lies smoothly. "So unless you want dear Nathaniel to know you lost your virginity to me in the back of a moving vehicle, I encourage patience and restraint."

Her lips curl upwards in a semblance of a smile. "Isn't there someone _else_ you can torture?"

How is it that her mere _tone_ can cut him so badly?

Sliding his shades back on, hiding behind their tint, he smirks at her, patronizing. "Probably," he admits, climbing out of the chair. "But I _choose_ you."

He strolls away, knowing she is watching. He can feel her glare burning into his skin. Perhaps it is time to fight fire with fire? See how she likes being unappreciated? But how? Who has the power to make Blair Waldorf jealous?

And there, rounding the corner is his answer.

Serena.

Excellent.

If the ice queen has one weakness, it is this. Her fear that she will forever come second to Serena.

Chuck struts over to the blonde, all the while feeling Blair's hot gaze on him. "Why don't I turn that one-piece into a no-piece?" he leers.

Serena makes a disgusted face. "Find a floatie to talk to Chuck!"

"You know," he continues undeterred. "If my dad and your mom come back from South Africa tomorrow engaged, we'll be brother and sister. And you know what they say? The family that plays together, stays together."

"Ah… incest," the golden waif nods. "The universal taboo. One of the only ones you haven't violated."

He grins. "Well, I'm game if you are."

She leans forward, and for a second he thinks this might not work out like he intends, that she might actually kiss him. Her lips are dangerously close, and while he loves teasing Serena about them hooking up sometime, he doesn't really desire her that way. She's… Well she's like a sibling. They share too much history. Too much _Georgina_.

He is about to pull back, when suddenly she strikes out, knocking his martini from his hand, before stalking off in a huff.

Good old, S. He should not have doubted her, and that little show should be enough to shake Queen B's confidence. And if not, he can certainly make something up, _elaborate_ ever so slightly. Now all that's left is to give her an opportunity to corner him without making it seem like he is doing it deliberately.

Threading through the crowd slowly, he makes his way to the showers. He goes into one of the bathroom stalls and waits. Sure enough, he soon hears soft footsteps enter the locker room in his wake. Kicking the flusher with a triumphant smirk, he steps out.

"What was that?" Blair demands immediately.

Nonchalantly, he walks over to the sink, washing his hands as if he had truly used the toilet instead of just standing by it. "What was what?" he asks innocently, although he is more than positive why she is so distressed.

"You were trying to flirt with Serena!" she accuses.

"Correction. I wasn't _trying_. I was," he clarifies with a cocky grin. "And she nearly kissed me." It isn't _precisely_ true, but Blair doesn't need to know that.

Her mouth drops in outrage. "She did not. She would never!"

"She would," Chuck counters. "And she has." Also not _completely_ honest. They have kissed, but only during party games, and well… one evening he would rather not recall, and really such details are not worth mentioning right now in front of the angry Waldorf. "We both know she'll do it again. It's just a question of when."

"The answer is never!" Blair bristles. "She hates you, and she has a boyfriend."

"Well maybe both those facts will escape her mind like they seem to escape yours."

Quicker than he can react, her palm flashes out. It connects sharply with his cheek. The sound echoes against the tiled walls.

Slowly, he rotates his head back to look at her. Already, the side of his face is starting to go numb. His eyes blaze with suppressed emotion. "You get one free. That was it," he grinds out.

She glowers, refusing to back down. "Serena's my best friend. You stay away from her!"

"And Nate is _my_ best friend. Take your own advice," he sneers, crowding her space, nearly touching her.

She raises her chin defiantly. "And you're lying about kissing Serena. She would have told me."

He gloats, "Like she told you about Nate?"

Blair's composed expression falters. "I…"

"Serena keeps secrets," Chuck reminds her, his voice cruel. "You know she does, and you don't know the Serena I know. Do you really think in all the years we ran in the same circles that it never happened? That we never made out? Never _fucked_?"

Her breath catches in her throat, her lips becoming rigid, warm brown eyes blinking a bit too rapidly. "But you…" she mutters, virtually inaudible. "You were…"

"I was what?" he snaps. "The one thing she's never taken from you? The only guy that ever wanted you over her?"

She flinches from his words, resentment flashing across her face. And something else. Something more. Keener than mere envy. Pain. The kind that only old wounds can bring. Then she's pushing at him, trying to flee, and he realizes that he took things too far, that using this particular insecurity against her was not wise. Serena is the weak spot in Blair's armor, the same way Nate is his, and friendship or not, some hurts never heal.

Fuck.

"Blair, wait! Stop!" he urges, wrapping his arms around her to prevent her escape. "Blair! Blair, look at me!"

"Leave me alone!" she cries, tiny fists pounding his chest. "Don't touch me!"

"Look at me, damn it!" he begs as she struggles to free herself. "I haven't been with Serena, okay? I've _never_ been with Serena!"

He isn't positive she's heard him, or if she believes him if she has, but the fight goes out of her. With a sob she slumps against him, his embrace the only thing keeping her upright.

"Blair, I'm sorry," he murmurs, cradling her. "I'm so sorry. Serena and I haven't ever done anything. I shouldn't have hinted otherwise. I don't even _want_ Serena."

She whimpers into his shirt. "Everyone wants Serena."

He loosens his hold on her just enough to peer down at her. "Not me," he confesses. "I never have. Not really."

She sniffles, a lone tear falling. "That's not true. You went after her. In ninth grade."

Chuck brushes her jaw with his knuckles, tucking a damp strand of hair behind her ear. "Yes," he breathes. "But even then she was just another piece I needed to knock over on my way to take the queen."

"She _was_ the queen," Blair snorts, a surprisingly bitter sound.

"Not to me," he assures her. "Never to me. It's always been you, princess. Don't you see that?"

"But… But Serena – "

"Serena is like a firework, okay?" he growls, pulling her tighter against him, pressing their foreheads together. "Dazzling for a brief moment, and then forgotten. You? You're like a star, shining brightly night after night."

"But there are tons of stars," she whispers.

He laughs gently at that, hands stroking along her spine, fingers caressing, molding her body to his. "Yes, but only one of them points north," he teases. "That's you, Blair. The star that stands out amongst the rest. The one that leads you safely home."

She moistens her lips, gaze darting to his own so very close. "Chuck, I…"

He swallows, thumbs grazing the knot of her swimsuit at the nape of her neck. Abruptly, he steps away from her. "You should return to the party, Waldorf."

"I… What?" she asks, her brow furrowed in confusion.

"Go back to the party. You'll be missed. Someone will notice you're gone."

Shaking her head in bafflement, she walks towards the door, then pauses. "Is that it?"

His heart clenches. "Is that _what_?"

She turns to look at him, still standing by the sinks. "You weren't… You weren't even going to – " Her voice stops, her mouth pressed into a grim line. "Never mind."

"Wait a minute," he calls, spring after her. "Why are you acting like that?"

She gives a weary sigh. "I'm not acting like anything."

"Yes, you are," he retorts. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you're pissed."

"Hardly," she denies, her eyes not matching her mouth.

"You are!" he exclaims, grabbing her shoulders. "Why?"

She attempts to jerk from his grasp. "Just let me go," she hisses.

"Not until you tell me why you're upset," he says, searching her face, a thought slowly taking shape. "Are you mad I didn't try to kiss you?"

"Of course not!" she scoffs. "Don't be ridiculous!"

"Look me in the eyes and say that," he dares, staring back at her steadily.

She glares at him fiercely. "I… I don't want…" she replies determinedly, but the words soon trail away. She can't meet his gaze.

He smiles, appearing so boyish for a second, before moving swiftly, cupping her cheek with one hand, burying the other in her wet tresses, bringing her lips to his with subtle force. She shivers as his tongue invades her mouth, reclaiming every inch of her. She moans, deepening the kiss, but then she wrenches herself away, slapping at his chest.

"What the fuck, Waldorf?" he snarls. "I _don't_ kiss you, you get angry. I _do_ kiss you, you get angry. What the _hell_ do you want from me, Blair?"

She gasps, wilting under his display of temper. "I… I don't know!" she wails suddenly, running from the locker room as if chased by demons.

Chuck watches her go, raking his fingers roughly through his hair with a curse. "Well then," he mutters to himself. "We're both fucked, aren't we?"


	27. Chapter 27

_Everyday it's getting worse_

_You do the same things and it hurts_

_I don't know if I should cry_

_All I know is that I'm trying_

_I want to believe in you_

_I want to believe in you_

_But you make it so hard to do_

-Ashley Tisdale-

When people cannot hold their liquor, it is _annoying_. When these drunken idiots get into an argument over a bottle of alcohol when there is plenty to go around, it is _embarrassing_. When one of the assholes smashes his head, falls into the pool, and nearly drowns, it is _disgraceful_. When the impromptu party is ruined because an ambulance has to be called for the fucker and everyone must flee in panic, it is _unforgivable_.

It is fortunate that the bastard didn't die, but he is still permanently _off_ the guest list.

And if Chuck ever finds out who was stupid enough to leave their phone containing pictorial evidence of who was in attendance behind, they will be off the list too! They are the reason two-thirds of the junior class has to suffer through this damned assembly so the new headmistress can threaten them with expulsion, can order them to write ten thousand word essays, can demand what's wrong with them like she's never broken a rule in her life.

Self-righteous bitch.

Once they are eventually released, Blair, always so level headed in a crisis, speaks on the steps before everyone can disperse. "So we all know how this works," she states. It isn't a question, but her gaze flicks around the group, hesitating a second on Serena, and coming to a stop on Chuck.

He smirks, glancing surreptitiously at the blonde, then meeting Blair's chocolate eyes in silent understanding. "No one talks," he drawls. "No one gets into trouble."

"Who did break in anyway?" Nathaniel asks.

Chuck manages to keep from snorting, but cannot resist the wry comment that springs to his lips. "I guess we don't have to worry about Nate cracking under pressure," he deadpans, honestly wondering how it is that his friend remains so oblivious after growing up surrounded by all the schemes and intrigues of the Upper East Side. Seriously, it didn't take a genius to figure out Serena was guilty, even if she hadn't been radiating worry like Dan Humphrey radiates loser. Was the golden boy too stoned this morning to remember when S had that fling with the captain of the swim team? Now, of course, she said they had been dating, but Chuck knew fuck buddies when he saw them. There had been no hand holding going on between Serena and her water jock, and a relationship wasn't real if you couldn't hold hands.

With a slight pang, he risks a quick glimpse downwards, sees Blair's palm absently caressing the navy blue fabric of her Constance uniform. His own fingers twitch minutely in response, his hand aching to grasp hers.

Soon, Bass. Very soon.

"So are we all agreed?" Blair asks suddenly, her small nod daring anyone to go against her wishes in this.

Serena shifts her weight, turning to look at her charity case boyfriend nervously. "Agreed," she replies. As the words leave her mouth, Blair's knowledgeable stare once again lands upon Chuck, and his lips curl with a bit of nostalgia. How many times already have they had to do this for Serena? She never could go long without needing to be rescued from some kind of mess.

Then her Brooklyn baggage decides to voice his opinion. Like anyone cares what he has to say. "Look, Blair," Dan sighs. "I know you have your sights set on Yale, but this Skull and Bones stuff is a bit much, don't you think?"

Blair smiles at him patronizingly. "Maybe," she admits. "But it works. Every time."

With one last glance at Chuck, she lifts her chin, the unspoken signal for the crowd to return to their respective classes. They scatter, and as Chuck walks back into the halls of Saint Jude's he puzzles over what that final shared look meant.

He is still considering it when his cell vibrates in his pocket. He pulls it out and finds there is a message waiting from Blair. Anxiously, he reads it.

– Thanks 4 backing me up –

He grins, typing a response, and pressing SEND.

– Anytime –

Almost immediately, his phone buzzes again.

– Papers 2nite my place? –

"Who are you texting?" Nate whispers from the desk next to his.

Shit.

Chuck shrugs, rotating his body away a fraction. "Girl from last night," he lies, fingers tapping buttons.

– When? –

"Cool," Nathaniel observes as the screen on Chuck's mobile lights up instantly. "She must really like you."

– 7? –

Trying to keep the elation off his face, pushing keys rapidly, Chuck leers at his best friend, "I hope so."

– I'll be there –

Nate shakes his head with a soft laugh, turning his attention back to his notebook. A short time later, a bell announces the lunch hour. "So where are we eating today?" he inquires, gathering his stuff into his backpack.

"Don't know, but how about I meet you in the courtyard in a few? I've got to get something from my locker," Chuck mutters.

"Sure," Nathaniel answers.

Waiting until the room is empty, Chuck places a call. "Arthur," he says into the phone. "I need a bouquet of flowers for this evening. Purple peonies. Make it happen."

Relieved that Blair is finally starting to come around, he heads out to the quad to find Nate. Spotting him seated at a table, writing diligently, Chuck approaches, musing aloud, "You're taking that paper seriously."

Nathaniel looks up, chagrined. "This isn't the paper. It's…" his voice trails away for a second. "It's a heartfelt letter to Blair."

"A heartfelt letter?" Chuck repeats incredulous. This is not good. Not good at all. "Who spayed you man?" he mocks, using the only leverage he has. "Blair doesn't even want you. She's been crystal about that since we got back."

"Didn't seem that way when she kissed me at the pool," the golden boy points out.

He must have heard that incorrectly. That's the only explanation. "She _kissed_ you?"

"Well, _I_ kissed her," Nathaniel clarifies. "But… Yep."

Tossing his bag down, Chuck sits heavily. His stomach churns, all traces of appetite dissipating in a wave of nausea. "But was she like… into it?" he asks, unable to help himself. "Or was she more like – "

"Of course she was into it, man!" Nate scoffs, cutting him off. "What do you think?"

Gritting his teeth, Chuck lamely replies, "Yeah I know, but uh… You know Blair." Something beyond jealousy unfurls in his chest. A tremor grows in his leg. He has an incredible urge to scream.

"Yes I do" Nathaniel boasts, his tone seeped in innuendo. "I just think she wants me to suffer a little more, you know? Even the playing field." Then he breaks into a grin. "It's worth it. _Believe_ me."

Chuck forces a fake smile, seething inside. Had he not been _clear_ enough? Did she think he wouldn't find out? That he was bluffing? That fucking –

"So you're going to Blair's later?"

Chuck thinks he might choke. "Blair's?" he whispers through the vice constricting his lungs.

"Yeah," Nathaniel mumbles, pencil still scribbling furiously. "She sent me a text just after I came out here telling me she was inviting everyone over this evening to work on those essays for Queller. You're coming, right?"

Breathe, Bass. Just breathe.

"Yeah, I'll be there." Abruptly he stands, and Nate raises his head to peer at him curiously. "I've got to go," he explains. "But I'll see you tonight. You can tell Blair that too. If you see her." With that, he stalks off, needing to be alone, hitting redial on his cell as he goes. "Arthur," he grinds out when his chauffer picks up. "Cancel that last order."

The bitch does not deserve flowers.

How could he have been so naive? Saturday's conversation had changed nothing. Why had he ever thought it would? Because they kissed? Lot of good that did. She had kissed Nathaniel that night too. Bet she hadn't slapped _him_ afterwards.

Then again this morning, why had he allowed himself to hope? Because she had looked at him? Because she had sent him a stupid text message? He had read into both way too much. A look was a look, and a text was a text, and neither of those things meant that she cared for him. She still wanted Nate, her perfect _gentleman_.

Lucky bastard.

Fuck, _he_ could be a better gentleman than Nathaniel. Hell, he _was_ a better gentleman when he didn't have to resort to blackmail just to spend some time with her!

But if that is how it must be, that is how it will be. All's fair in love and war, and this… This is shaping up to be war.


	28. Chapter 28

_If the squeaky wheel's always gettin' the grease_

_I'm totally devoted to disturbin' the peace_

_And I'll do it all again when I get done_

_Until I become your number one_

_No method's in the madness and no means of escape_

_Gonna break every rule, I'll bend 'em all out of shape_

_It ain't a question of how, just a matter of when_

_You get the message that I'm tryin' to send_

-Tevin Campbell-

First rule of combat? Use concealment. An enemy cannot block an attack they don't see coming.

Really convenient then that he has an invitation to her house for this very night. If he just shows up like he is none the wiser, she will never suspect that he has heard all about that kiss. The one he had _expressly_ forbidden her to have. Since that small fact seems to have slipped her mind, she needs a refresher on the terms of their deal. He agreed to keep mum about their tryst if, and only if, she stayed the fuck away from Nathaniel. So unless she wants her dirty little secret broadcast to everyone, any further physical intimacy with him is absolutely _unacceptable_. And what better place to remind her of this than her own residence, surrounded by the very people she doesn't want to know?

Georgina would be so _proud_.

The rest of the school day he studiously shuns the common areas, and hurries to his limo as soon as the final bell rings. Wouldn't do to bump into Blair early and ruin the element of surprise. He supposes if he did run into her, he could just act like he was still clueless, but as he has been fuming since the lunch time reveal, the likelihood that he could keep his contempt under wraps if they met is minimal. Best not risk tipping her off prematurely.

Like by arriving on time for her study session, for example. That would appear too eager, and could alert the frigid bitch that something was up. So even though his limo starts circling her building at 6:45, he doesn't allow himself to climb out until well past 7:30. A half hour is appropriately late he decides, and as he strolls inside, he fixes a suitably bored expression on his face. The official reason behind this social gathering is so they can write their essays after all, and he must play the part, even if he had already paid Nelly Yuki to do it for him.

But as he exits the elevator and steps into the Waldorf penthouse, it appears _nobody_ actually intends to work on those damn papers. Music is blaring, alcohol is flowing, and there is a poker game already in progress. Seems academic punishment is just another excuse to party, and usually that would be just fine with him, but tonight he has objectives more pressing than getting drunk and laid.

Although if a certain someone _begged_…

Helping himself to a martini from the refreshment table Dorota had undoubtedly arranged, Chuck joins some of Queen B's minions, reclining on the chaise near them, tuning out their chatter about some guy from Cornell's ethics program. He could care less, but he nods occasionally as if listening while his gaze smolders for a glimpse of chestnut curls.

Finally, he spots her, the ever consummate hostess, flitting from group to group with mimosas, but she never draws close enough for him to catch her eye. Perhaps she's avoiding him this evening much like he avoided her this afternoon. But if ignoring him is her goal, it is not going to be successful very long. He has a definite way of capture her attention.

Reaching casually into his suit coat, he pulls out an old fashioned skeleton key suspended upon a burgundy ribbon. He holds it up, dangles it between his fingers, and waits patiently for her to see it. Once she does, he's beyond confident she'll recognize what it is instantly. After all, how many times in the past had Serena used this very means to sneak them into the school pool at her behest?

Sure enough, minutes later when Blair arrives to set down another tray of drinks, she glances at Chuck and her chocolate orbs widen in shock. "I can't believe you brought that here!" she hisses, snatching the golden key from his grasp. "It's evidence. Give it to me."

He suppresses the smirk that tugs at his mouth as she hides the key within her hand and stalks towards the staircase. Exactly according to plan. Now he just has to follow her.

Second rule of combat? Move into a position of advantage. It forces the enemy to be on the defensive, and if one is defending, one cannot attack.

Confronting Blair in her room will take her off guard, and the memories of all the things they have done together in her very bed will shift the odds in his favor. Plus, it allows him to blackmail her covertly, away from the inquisitive stares of their peers. He does his best work under the radar. Yet another trait he picked up from the hell spawn Georgina.

Whore.

Watching Blair ascend the stairs, admiring the sway of her hips and the view of her legs in the skirt that barely manages to cover her ass, Chuck prepares to sneak after her. Before he can rise, however, his objective is thwarted by Serena's flavor of the month.

"Chuck, you need to tell the truth," Dan orders, as if he is entitled to voice his opinion.

"Whatever happened to don't speak until spoken to?" Chuck sneers.

Why is this Brooklyn baggage even here? He knows Blair would not have invited him. Best friend's boyfriend or not, she loathes the loser almost as much as Chuck does. Serena must have told the judgmental, self-righteous prick to come.

_Great_.

"I just saw you with that key," Dan accuses. "I _know_ you had it at the party."

Chuck squints at the insinuation, annoyed at having to deal with this sucker punching asshole instead of heading upstairs in Blair's wake immediately. "Poor little Humphrey Dumpty," he sighs, putting his martini glass down upon the floor. "Look, let me _clarify_ something for you. Regardless of who you're currently sleeping with, you and I come from different worlds," he explains patronizingly.

If only they had remained in different worlds, he thinks. But no. He was already forced to share classes with the charity case, and then Serena decided to inflict the fucker upon them by dating him. Hopefully her little whim of rebellion will revert back to its previous form soon. Chuck liked her better before, when she knew not to develop an attachment for the guy she was slumming with. Seriously, was she so vapid that she thought it could work out between them? They had _nothing_ in common, and she should be aiming _much_ higher.

Sardonically, Chuck continues, "In my world, if I'm suspended or expelled, a wing is donated in the Bass name."

"That sounds like quite a world," Dan mutters, disapproving as always.

Hearing the censure in the other boy's tone, Chuck's lips twist in derision. "Well it's not perfect, I'll admit. But one thing it does offer in spades is security," he gloats. "My family can take care of me. What do the Humphreys have to offer? Used Metro cards? Your dad's cassingle?"

_Love_.

It springs unbidden to his mind, accompanied by a flash of… envy? No, surely not. Chuck Bass does _not_ covet the life of Dan Humphrey. He is nothing but white trash, a lower class nobody. He has no connections, no money, no power. And yet…

Damn it, he has a _family_. A real family. The kind one sees on television where the parents actually care where the kids are and sometimes they eat meals together. Where the fathers are involved, and the mothers are alive, and the children… the children are safe in the knowledge that they are loved, that Mom and Dad are proud of them, and that no matter what happens, those facts won't ever change.

Lucky bastard.

Chuck stands, glowering at Dan, hating himself for this sudden wave of jealousy. "And in case you were wondering, you _narc_," he taunts, "I only took the key from the party to hide it so we didn't all get blamed." His volume dips, becoming a menacing whisper. "Including you."

Without further comment, Chuck walks away, praying that the slight delay had not cost him the chance to join Blair before she leaves her room. But as he rounds the corner, he sees he's too late. There she is, already descending the staircase.

His resentment of Humphrey rises. He hadn't wanted to talk to him in the first place, and now the Brooklyn hypocrite has ruined his opportunity to corner the ice queen. Now the situation is less than ideal. He is going to have to improvise, and there will be potential witnesses.

Goddamn it.

Third rule of combat? Attack.

As Blair reaches the bottom of the steps, Chuck snatches her wrist, turning her around.

"Hey! Let go of me Bass," she cries, jerking her arm loose.

"Drop your Archibald habit first," he demands.

She scoffs, "You know I already have."

The audacity of that statement causes his teeth to clench. "Really? A kiss does sort of send the wrong signal," he jeers, cutting her off when she tries to interrupt. "Let's not waste time denying."

"You know what?" she glares, her chin lifting defiantly. "I'm tired of this. Go ahead and tell him."

Chuck arches a brow, calling her bluff, glancing surreptitiously towards the unexpected movement on the edge of his vision. It's a young woman. Someone he doesn't know, although she looks vaguely familiar. But she has a video camera, and it is trained on them. "Really?" he drawls, a scheme quickly taking shape in his brain. "You want me to tell him how you slept with me and then faked your virginity for him?"

Blair's mouth briefly compresses into an outraged line. "I'll just tell him you're lying," she threatens with a smug smile. "And who do you think he'll believe? You, who bangs anything in his field of vision? Or me, his pure and honest girlfriend of many years?"

He smirks, risking another peek sideways. The chick is still there, camcorder still rolling. "I _know_ he'll believe me," he brags.

"Why?"

"I have proof," he declares, indicating their mystery movie maker with a flourish. "Good eye, docu-girl," he says, congratulating her while sticking his palm out expectantly. "I'll take the tape now."

"You knew she was watching?" Blair scowls at him, before turning her attention to the spy. "This is my house. That tape belongs to me."

"Actually, this is _my_ footage," the girl points out, breezing past them, escaping into the foyer. "And thanks to both of you, I think I got a new angle on my subject."

Realizing that she intends to leave, Chuck grabs her elbow. "If you think I'm going to let you walk out of here with that tape you're crazy."

"Let go of me!" she shouts, tugging free.

Suddenly Dan is there by her side, protectively shoving his palm into Chuck's chest, forcing him back. "Hey!" Serena's boy toy cautions, "Last time I checked, I still owe you a black eye, so unless this is you coming to claim it, stay away from her."

Then the two of them are gone, Blair and Chuck left standing gaping after them in shock.

Holy shit.

That bitch has evidence she can use against him. Against _them_. Irrefutable confirmation of what they have done. And although he desires to have their relationship become public, he would rather it be on his terms. Not on the whim of some Salvation Army associate of Dan Humphrey. This is _bad_. Proof like that can, and will, come back to bite one in the ass. It leads to intimidation, coercion, extortion. He fully understands that. After all, he had used similar means to orchestrate a ceasefire with Georgina, and currently employed comparable tactics in his manipulation of the unwilling Waldorf.

Fuck!

"Look what you did!" Blair snarls, stabbing him in the stomach with a fingernail.

He grimaces, rubbing the spot. "Still playing the innocent victim I see."

"I _am_ the victim here!" she exclaims. "This is your fault entirely."

"Don't get your La Perlas in a bunch," he admonishes, touching her shoulder in an attempt to be soothing. "We'll get the tape back."

She bristles at the contact, shrugging his caress off. "There is no _we_, and I'll get it from her myself. I don't need your help."

His jaw tightens in response. "Good, because I wasn't offering it," he grinds out. "It would interfere with savoring the pleasure of rubbing your face in my victory."

"This isn't a competition Chuck."

"Yes it is," he growls. "You just made it one." Without warning, he reaches out to stroke her cheek. His thumb grazes the fullness of her lower lip, and her eyelids flutter at the sensation. "May the best _man_ win," he snorts, removing his hand abruptly.

She blinks, momentarily unsettled by his predatory grin. Then she straightens, her face transforming into a mask of disdain. "We'll see about that," she huffs, storming away.

He stares at her retreating form for a second before returning to the living room, searching visually for a halo of golden hair amongst the crowd. Rapidly locating her, Chuck weaves around people to stand by Serena's side. "Humphrey's boho brunette?" he inquires. "What's her name?"

"Dan's friend?" Serena asks, her brow furrowed in suspicion. "Chuck, leave her – "

"What. Is. Her. Name?" he repeats softly, clearly enunciating each syllable, his anger all the more pronounced for it.

Under the force of his gaze, Serena wilts. "Vanessa," she swallows weakly. "Vanessa Abrams."

"Thank you." He stalks off, his cell already halfway to his ear when the blonde grabs his opposite wrist, stopping him.

"Chuck, wait! Whatever she's done, I don't think…"

He looks at her slowly, the expression on his face making her words fade into nothing. His dark eyes glare at her slim fingers upon his arm until she removes them. Then he turns away, stepping into the elevator, pressing #3 on his speed dial before the doors even close. "I need _everything_ you can find on Vanessa Abrams."


	29. Chapter 29

_Well I wanted you, I wanted no one else_

_I thought it through, I got you to myself_

_You got off every time you got onto me_

_I got caught up in favorable slavery_

_Was it wrong? Was it wrong?_

_I guess it wasn't really right_

_I guess it wasn't meant to be_

_It didn't matter what they said 'cause we were good in bed_

_I guess I stuck around so I could watch us fight for all the wrong reasons_

-Nickelback-

By dawn, Chuck's private investigator has supplied him with more than enough information.

Vanessa Anne Abrams. Seventeen. Budding filmmaker. Transplanted from Vermont. Newly emancipated. Currently residing in an apartment building which should be condemned, whose rent almost exceeds her wages working as a barista full time. Recently applied for an arts grant to supplement her income and support her documentarian dreams.

He knows girls like her. The ones who act like money isn't important, but the truth is money _is_ important to everyone, especially when those who have none to spare. Ten thousand dollars could really make a difference in her life, and that is what he's going to offer her in exchange for the video.

Before heading to Saint Jude's, he has Arthur swing by Vanessa's place, but she has already left. Puzzled as to where she could be, he rifles through the rest of the papers the PI faxed over. Her next shift at the coffee shop isn't scheduled until this evening, but maybe she got called in unexpectedly. It isn't like she has to attend classes. The dossier indicates she's homeschooled. So what else besides her employment could have possessed her to leave the confines of her dilapidated studio this early? Surely not hanging with friends because her only real associates are the Humphreys, and obviously she cannot be with them as they are at school.

Not knowing where else she could have gone, he has his chauffer take him deeper into the heart of Brooklyn. It'll mean missing first period, but he doesn't pay attention to speech and rhetoric anyway. The musty professor cannot possibly teach him more about verbal sparring than he has already learned under the tutelage of the Upper East Side's master manipulator.

Psychotic bitch.

Arriving at the tiny café, Chuck strolls inside expectantly looking for the boho brunette. The woman at the register, however, is not her. Neither is the one behind the counter making the drinks. Well, piss! He came all this way, only to find she isn't here, and he can't even order a damn latte because he is not ingesting anything that was made at an establishment with a menu drawn in _chalk_. That's just asking for food poisoning.

He stomps back to the limo, assuring himself on the drive to school that it'll be safe to wait to present Vanessa with the bribe. After all, Blair could not have been more successful this…

Shit!

There they are. The two of them. Chatting in the courtyard in front of the steps. Perhaps he had grossly underestimated the her resources.

Fighting down a surge of panic, he analyses their body language. Queen B is tense. Always a reliable indication things aren't going in her favor. The wannabe Michael Moore, on the other hand, seems relaxed. Another good sign.

As they continue conversing, Blair grows increasingly stiff. Then with the fake smile she usually reserves for him, she turns and walks inside sans tape, a model of outraged dignity, leaving the other girl alone on the pavement.

Chuck almost laughs. Watching her fail spectacularly gives him so much _joy_.

He doesn't exult in her letdown long, however. Quickly, he approaches his target, hiding his elation behind a disinterested veneer. Barely two minutes later, and it is done. The transaction goes remarkably well. Vanessa Abrams now has enough cash to cover her expenses for quite some time, and Chuck Bass is in possession of the recording Blair Waldorf claimed she could get on her own.

Amateur.

Next on the agenda? Finding the right opportunity to rub her face in it. Lunch perhaps? He has been meaning to stroll past the Met…

Until that time, however, he supposes he should go to math. He hates the subject, but at least he shares a table with Nate, so it isn't as horrible as it could be. They always spend the period passing notes. But when he gets there, the golden boy is nowhere to be found, although the other guys inform Chuck that he had been present for the first class. Strange. It isn't like Nathaniel to skip without some major persuasion, usually of the herbal variety.

The minutes until noon drag by slowly without Nate to provide a distraction from the boring professor yammering on about cosigns and tangents. But before the bell rings to signal the hour of freedom, an announcement blares over the intercom. Apparently there's going to be _another_ assembly of the junior class. Fucking Queller. The hag is seriously on a witch hunt. Too bad it'll go nowhere.

Shuffling into the chapel, the boys take their seats on the wooden benches. "Nathaniel!" Chuck greets when he sees his friend already occupying a row. "There you are. Doing a little mid-morning wake and bake without me?"

"Not exactly… I was talking with – "

Just then the girls from Constance Billard start filing in, the headmistress leading the group. "Tell me after, okay? Wouldn't want to give Queller another excuse to bust our balls. Bitch is out for blood," Chuck advises as the woman in question makes her way to the podium.

Turning away from Nate, he risks a peek across the aisle to where Blair sits with her minions. Seeing her so near, he cannot suppress the urge to gloat, even as the hawkeyed headmistress starts to admonish them concerning some mistake or other. Surreptitiously, he pulls the tape from his jacket pocket, holding it up in a way that catches the ice princess's attention. "Proof worth every penny," he taunts softly when she glances over, reveling in the way her composed façade slips for a second. She should have known better than to bet against a Bass.

Facing towards the front once more, Chuck attempts not to blatantly yawn as Queller lectures on about Saturday's spontaneous pool party. "…but someone came forward today and claimed responsibility," she drones. "For a crime he did not commit."

Huh? Who would be that stupid?

"And although I appreciate his self-sacrifice, I don't abide dishonesty, and I think it's time you all know how serious I am," she continues, her tone summoning all the authority she can muster. "Nathaniel Archibald is…"

The effect is instantaneous. Shock ripples through the pews even as the words leave her mouth.

"…suspended from Saint Jude's, and yes this _will_ go on his transcript. Effective immediately. Mr. Archibald, you know where to find the exit."

Chagrinned, Nate rises and makes his way outside.

"Watch him go students. Who wants to be next?" Queller asks. "Until one of you comes forward, we'll keep going until every last one of you has walked out that door."

What the hell, Chuck thinks when they are released shortly afterwards. Why would Nathaniel _do_ that? Had he at last realized Serena was behind the break in? Was he acting all noble for her? That must be it. He's trying to _protect_ Serena. That moron! He should have stuck with the plan! Now all he's done is alert the headmistress that people do know who is responsible and gotten himself suspended in the process.

Goddamn it!

Wishing he had known what Nate intended so he could have prevented it, Chuck stalks out into the quad. What he sees there causes resentment to flare in this chest.

Blair is talking with Nathaniel! Probably comforting him and telling him what a chivalrous white knight he's being. Did she not _understand_ that her precious boyfriend is an idiot? That he'd basically betrayed her _again_ in favor of her blonde haired BFF?

No. Of course not. Nate is a _gentleman_. Nate is _perfect_. Nate is… Nate is an asshole! Why does nobody see it? It is so obvious! How does he keep managing to fool everyone over and over again? Because he's athletic? Because he's handsome? Because he's old money?

Fuck!

What else had Blair said to him about Nathaniel? That he was easy and honest and open? Fine! If that's what she wants, that's what she'll get. Only _not_ from the golden boy.

She wants easy? No more games then. Honest? Nothing but the truth from now on. Open? Goodbye posturing. She thinks she's seen the real Chuck Bass, but she has no idea. No one has seen the real him since… since…

"_Since me, Chucky?"_

He shudders, shoving Georgina's cruel phantom voice away. He wishes he could deny it, but he cannot. It's true. The whore's words rarely are, but in this one instance she is correct. Nobody has been allowed to see the real him since that night long ago. He doesn't let people get that close, doesn't want anyone seeing him vulnerable ever again. Only she, the hell spawn, knows the real him, and it's an honor she does not deserve to hold alone anymore.

It's a gamble, he knows. A huge gamble that'll expose himself to Blair's possible ridicule, but he has to decide what's most important to him: keeping his pride and getting nothing, or taking a risk, and maybe, maybe having everything?

Chuck makes up his mind before she even leaves Nathaniel standing by himself in the courtyard. Time to let operation easy and honest and open commence!

He catches up with her just as she goes to head inside. Moving in front of her, he effectively blocks the entrance. "Three o'clock, Waldorf. My suite. Non-negotiable."

"Screw you," she hisses.

He smirks, fingering the hem of her skirt. "Wear something this short," he promises, "And that can be arranged." With a disgusted noise, she slaps his hand away. "See you later, princess."

Okay, maybe the snarky innuendo wasn't precisely what he'd been aiming for, but at least she's coming over. He'll work on the other stuff. Baby steps. Besides, revealing hidden aspects of himself should be easier in the safety of suite 1812 anyway.

He attends a couple of his next classes, but decides to cut his last one so he'll have more time to prepare for Blair's arrival. Dashing towards the street, he collides with Serena. "Hey!" he complains as he stoops to pick up his fallen book bag. "Shouldn't you be in class?"

"I could say the same about you!" she retorts.

"Touché," he grins. "So why are _you_ skipping? Reverting to your wild ways?"

"Hardly," the fair-haired waif explains. "I'm turning myself in."

He cannot have heard her correctly. "What?" he scoffs. "Have you been mixing valium and Ritalin again? I _told_ you that was a bad idea."

She ignores his comment. "It's the right thing to do Chuck."

"It's the _stupid_ thing to do," he counters. "Serena, Queller will expel you!"

She shakes her head, golden tresses bouncing. "I bet she'll go easy on me since I'm admitting my guilt voluntarily."

"She'll go easy on you?" he mocks, grabbing her elbow. "Are you nuts? She's going to make an example of you so nobody else steps out of line!"

Serena jerks her arm free. "You're not talking me out of this, Chuck. I've already made my decision and I'm sticking to it." With that, she marches determinedly towards the building.

"Your funeral then," he calls after her.

What is up with the self-sacrificing blonde brigade today? First Nate. Now Serena. Was it something in the water? This… This is why he sticks to scotch.

But joking aside, what the fuck is Serena thinking? There is no way she won't be kicked out of Constance for the late night swimming incident, and with her record, they won't let her back in. She'll have to attend boarding school once more, which means he won't get to harass her on the daily basis to which he has grown accustomed. Worse, if she's gone, Blair will be essentially friendless. She isn't close with any other girls besides Serena and if she's not around, Blair _could_ turn to him, but would most likely cling even tighter to Nate. That cannot be allowed to happen.

.

Climbing into the waiting limo, Chuck whips out his phone, presses 6 on his speed dial.

"Yeah," a blunt male voice answers almost immediately.

The sharpness in that tone never fails to make him inwardly flinch. "Good to hear your voice too, Dad."

"What is it Chuck?"

"I… I just…" he swallows, suddenly nervous.

"Chuck, I'm tired. I'm jet lagged. And I have a lot of work to get done before the dinner tonight," Bart sighs, his irritation coming through the line quite clearly.

Still, Chuck cannot help but be curious. "Dinner?" he asks.

"Yes," his father clarifies. "My secretary should have called you about it. We're having an engagement dinner at – "

"_Engagement_ dinner?" Chuck repeats dumbfounded. "So Lily said yes?"

"Of course she said yes. Now I'll see you at 8," Bart says brusquely. "Unless there's something else?"

His father's exasperation causes the words to lodge in Chuck's throat. "Well, I…"

"What kind of trouble are you in?"

"None," he grimaces, wishing that just once his father wouldn't think it unimaginable for his son to want to sit and talk with him. "It's... It's Serena."

"Serena?"

"Yeah. The headmistress was threatening to expel everyone," Chuck explains. "So Serena decided to confess about breaking into the school pool."

"_Great_," Bart groans. "I'll take care of it."

"Thanks Dad, and – " he breaks off, hearing a distinctive click as his father hangs up without so much as a goodbye. "Good talking to you too," he mutters to himself cynically.

His father never cares enough to get angry. He _expects_ Chuck to fuck things up and need to be rescued. But when he finally is not calling for himself, he is still treated like a nuisance. And now Bart is getting married, and he had told his _secretary_ before his own son!

But now that there is going to be a new Mrs. Bass, his father might be around more often. Maybe he'll stop looking at Chuck like he killed his first beloved wife, and be able to forgive him for being born as she died. Perhaps they can finally be a family. A real family of Chuck and Bart and Serena and Eric and Lily. Mom, Dad, and the kids.

It'll be… _perfect_.

Lily isn't the greatest parent, of course. She has flitted from relationship to relationship and left her own children for countless days on end, but she _is_ a mother, and after the wedding she'll be _his_ mother. Well, technically his stepmother, but that is just semantics. She'll still be his. The first mother figure he's ever known. So it doesn't really matter if she isn't the _best_ mom. She's _a_ mom, soon to be _his_ mom, and that is better than nothing.

Then there's Serena and Eric. He'll have a little brother and an older sister. He won't be alone anymore. They can do sibling things. Like… well… stuff! What they do isn't important, just that now he has people to do them with! People that have to stand by him through thick and thin because they are family and families stick together.

It's more than he had ever dared to dream.

He blinks, eyes unexpectedly filling with tears. He wipes them away, laughing at himself. Today has just become one of the best days of his life, and it is only going to keep improving because Blair will be over this afternoon. If things go especially well, maybe he'll even invite her to the dinner.

Although he had left school early to organize everything before she shows up, he nevertheless runs out of time making sure his plan will run smoothly. He barely manages finishing his preparations before she knocks at his suite.

Showtime.

"Still in that skirt, I see," he observes drily as he opens the door and gestures for her to come inside. "I seem to remember mentioning what might happen if you were. You must be rather eager."

"You wish," she glowers, brushing past him. "I'm only wearing it because your _orders_ didn't exactly allow me enough leeway to go home to change. Otherwise I'd be in pants."

"Why?" he goads, unable to help himself. "Worried you can't trust yourself around me?"

She rolls her eyes. "Hardly. _You're_ the one who can't be trusted."

"Maybe you _should_ switch to Catholicism, Waldorf," he says, his mouth twitching in amusement. "I hear they're big on martyrs."

"Cut the crap, Bass. Why am I here?"

He grins. "We're going to watch a movie."

She looks like she's going to kill him. "You blackmailed me into coming over here so we could watch a damn _movie_?"

He doesn't even try to hide how pleased with himself he is. "Yeah," he nods.

"Fine," she snaps disgusted, throwing her stuff down petulantly. "Breakfast at Tiffany's it is then."

He shakes his head. "No. Not one of _your_ favorites. One of mine."

This he has decided is going to be his first revelation about the real him. Something nice and safe, but surprising nonetheless.

From the leather couch, she scowls. "If you think I'm sitting through Debbie Does Dallas, you're quite mistaken."

Smirking, he offers her the popcorn he had made in advance. "It's highly overrated, anyway. Deep Throat is much better." He cocks a brow. "Wouldn't you agree?"

"Like I would know," she denies, snatching the bowl from him.

"Well you _were_ the one who brought up porn in the first place, princess," he points out smugly. "Why is that I wonder? Little agitated lately? Having to take things into your own hands?" His smirk deepens. "You know, I'd love to help you out with that…"

"I just bet you would, you pig," she glares. "But can we hurry this along? I don't have all day."

He gives her a faux bow before padding to the entertainment center. "Whatever my lady commands."

"I'm not your lady!"

He glances briefly over his shoulder at her, expression arrogant. "Yet." A couple seconds later, a pillow hits him in the back. He turns around, almost laughing. "Real mature, Blair, resorting to physical violence. You really _are_ frustrated, aren't you?"

She bristles. "I hate – "

He holds up a hand, cutting her off. "Spare me. I know the spiel. So sit back, relax, and enjoy the film."

"I still don't even know what we're watching," she sulks.

Popping the disc into the DVD player, he tosses the case to her playfully. She stares at it as if in shock.

"You've got to be kidding!" she deadpans. "Gone With the Wind?"

"It's a great film. I think you will really _appreciate_ it," Chuck assures her. "See it's about this girl, beautiful, spoiled, spiteful, who keeps throwing herself at this guy who doesn't want her, while treating the guy who does care for her like crap. Then when she finally realizes she's loved this other guy all along, it is too late and he tells her to fuck off."

"I believe the line is 'Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn!'" Blair responds sarcastically.

"Oh good," he winks "You _have_ seen it. I was worried you'd have to take notes to get the meaning."

Her lips curl into an approximation of a smile that does not look the least bit happy. "Subliminal message much?"

"Whatever works."

"Well, try again, because in this you're wrong," she gloats. "Nate does want me. He _loves_ me. He told me so before he left school today. He tried to take the blame for the pool thing because he thought I was behind it. _That's_ love Bass. Not these sick games."

"Just shut up and watch the TV," he whispers.

Goddamn fucking Nathaniel playing hero, sacrificing himself for Blair. How the hell is Chuck supposed to compete with that? He isn't Prince Charming. He is flawed, tainted, insecure. He's made mistakes, and he will make them again. He is not perfection, and he cannot begin to vie with the fantasy she has constructed around Nathaniel, especially now. Nothing, not sleeping with her friend, or sneaking behind her back, or breaking her heart, or hooking up with a random blonde can tarnish the golden boy's image, so what chance can he possibly have?

Pessimistic, he wads up the quilt from his bed, walks behind the sofa, and drapes it over her head. She pulls it off annoyed, but does wrap it around herself as he sits on the opposite end of the couch, using the remote to bring up the DVD menu.

"We're seriously going to watch this?" she says incredulous.

"Yes."

She exhales in evident weariness. "You don't actually expect me to believe you _like_ this movie."

"Why not?" he asks, tension radiating down his arms.

She shrugs. "You're… You're Chuck Bass."

His jaw clenches. "So?"

"You don't have a romantic bone in your body," she states, so confidently that he cannot prevent the leer that transforms his face as his gaze drops to his trousers deliberately. "_Least_ of all that one," she snorts.

"Perhaps you don't know me as well as you think you do," he counters bitterly, rotating on the leather cushions, stretching his legs out and into her lap.

Instantly, she tries to push them off. "I don't want your feet on me!"

He sneers, "There's plenty of floor."

"I am _not_ going to sit on the floor."

"And I'm not going to move, so deal with it," he retorts, dismissing her look of outrage by tapping a button to start the film. A moment goes by during which she purses her lips. Then her finger deftly runs along the sole of his foot. He flinches, his knee jerking from the contact. "Do it and die, Waldorf," he threatens.

She meets the challenge in his eyes with false innocence. "Do what?" she inquires, a second before she grabs his foot.

"That's it," he growls. He lunges for her, upsetting the bowl of popcorn, dumping all over the floor. With a shriek, Blair tries to flee, but Chuck seizes the blanket entwined around her, using it as leverage to pull her back down. "How do you like it, huh?" he shouts, tickling her through the fabric as she squeals, her whole body thrashing, attempting to tickle him back until she pushes him off the sofa.

He lands with a grunt, dragging her down as well. They roll across the carpet, crushing popcorn kernels into the rug, neither willing concede victory. Then with a enthusiastic cry, he traps her with his weight, pinning her wrists above her head. Hair in total disarray, grinning like the sixteen year old boy he is, he looks at her in triumph, both of them breathing hard and laughing. The second their eyes meet, however, something alters.

Chuck becomes acutely aware that she is lying beneath him. Her skirt has ridden up, exposing the tops of her thighs in their pale grey stockings. One of her legs is hooked around his waist, inadvertently pressing him closer.

His hold on her arms loosens, and she tugs one hand free to cradle his jaw, searching his eyes. A flush is high in her cheeks, her rosy lips parted slightly.

"Blair," he croaks, his voice strangely hoarse, his body already reacting to the proximity of hers.

Feeling his growing arousal, she gasps, arching into his hardness. "Kiss me," she commands, and with a harsh intake of air, he obeys.

His mouth captures hers, tongue claiming her as his while her fingers twist in his hair, deepening the kiss.

"God, I've missed this," she moans as he palms one of her breasts through her shirt.

Hearing her words echo in his mind, his hand freezes. Shoulders tightening with dread.

She's missed this. _This_. Not him. Of course not him. Why would she? She doesn't care for him. He's little more than a means to an end, a way to get off. _That's_ what she misses, and if Nate had known what he was doing, she probably wouldn't even have missed that. She wouldn't have spared Chuck a second thought ever again.

Coldhearted whore.

Sensing the subtle change in his demeanor, she nuzzles his neck. "We…" he breathes, mastering a shiver as her lips graze his ear. "We shouldn't do this."

In response, her tongue darts out against his skin as her hips rub against his erection. "Come on, Bass," she purrs. "Don't play hard to get now. It'll just delay the inevitable."

Hope flutters faintly in his chest. Propping himself up a fraction, he looks intently into her face, her irises darkened to ebony pools of desire. "Are you saying _we're_ inevitable?"

"Just shut up and kiss me!" she says trying to bring his mouth back down.

He gets up abruptly. "No. No, I can't do this."

"What?" she cries in confusion. "What the hell kind of game is this?"

"It's not a game," he hisses. "In case you forgot, you're still with Nate."

"Didn't stop you before," she accuses.

Guilt flashes through him along with resentment. "Well it's stopping me now."

"Great," she laughs callously as she stands and rearranges her clothes. "So now you decide to develop a conscience?"

"I've always had a conscience, Blair."

"Could have fooled me," she says, her tone biting.

"Yeah, well we've already established that the things you don't know about me could fill a book," he grinds out, temper flaring to match hers for a moment. Then all the fight drains from him. "Now please leave," he mutters so softly he's scarcely audible.

"Excuse me?"

"You're excused. So let yourself out. Go back to Nathaniel. Do whatever you want from now on," he sighs, heart constricting. "I won't stop you."

"You're just dropping this? The whole blackmail thing? Even though you have the tape?" Her gaze narrows suspiciously. "Why?"

"Because…" he begins, but his voice trails off.

Because Blair doesn't see him as a person. He's a thing, a monster, a womanizer, a deviant, a devil. He isn't human, isn't capable of feeling. He's _Chuck_ _Bass_.

Because Nate is his friend, his best friend who trusts him implicitly, even though he shouldn't. Who has stood by him, offering nothing but acceptance, and who does not deserve to have that lifelong loyalty rewarded like this.

But mostly, because if you love something, you should set it free, and maybe, just maybe, she'll come back to him on her own.

"Because," he says again, clearing his throat. He moistens his lips, glancing away, avoiding her eyes. He is an expert liar, hadn't had a choice but to become one. A matter of survival in the realm of Georgina Sparks, but he cannot lie to _her_. Not now. Not about this. Not if he looks at her.

He swallows, turns, gives her a view of his back before he retreats into the bathroom and the door shuts in her face. "Because I'm bored."


	30. Chapter 30

_I'm doing this tonight_

_You're probably gonna start a fight_

_I know this can't be right, hey baby come on_

_I loved you endlessly when you weren't there for me_

_So now it's time to leave and make it alone_

-'N Sync-

She goes back to Nate. Nothing surprising about that. It was to be expected. And yet, he had held out hope, foolish though it was that maybe she would choose him. He doesn't know why he had thought that if she was free, if the choice was hers alone, she would return to him. She'd never wanted him for more than sex to begin with, and now… Well, now she was getting that from Nathaniel.

It's his punishment, he supposes, having to listen to the reports of their trysts. To nod and smirk and joke and jibe as if it all isn't making him sick inside, like he doesn't want smash Nate's teeth in every time the golden boy throws some lewd comment out about how being a girl's first is amazing. How tight she always is, how wet, the sounds she makes.

It makes _him_ want to vomit. Or scream. Or hop into his father's private jet and flee Manhattan permanently. But he can't do any of those things. He's Chuck Bass and he is not about to give her the satisfaction of seeing how upset he is. Was! How upset he _was_. He isn't upset anymore. He doesn't give a shit. Fuck that bitch. He is so _over_ whatever it was they had together. It hadn't been that _great_ anyway.

As long as he keeps saying it, maybe one day it will no longer be a lie.

It would help of course if he could stop torturing himself with reminders of her. He should delete her number from his phone, throw his scarf away, and not pursue any chick with brown hair until the sight doesn't immediately conjure mental pictures of _her_ chestnut tresses fanned out beneath him as he…

His jaw tightens, pain lancing through his chest at the memory of what he will never do with her again. Maybe it is better to just swear off brunettes completely. Everyone already says blondes _have_ more fun, so maybe they _are_ more fun too.

Except he hasn't really been in the mood for _fun _lately.

It's like he's broken. Finding a willing woman is easier than ever, but once he gets her back to his suite nothing happens. Or rather, _something_ happens, but not at all what he _wants_ to happen. Every time as soon as things progress to a certain point, he imagines _her_ with Nate and it all comes to a screeching halt with no chance of revival. He knows. He's tried. From the erotic to the pharmaceutical, nothing works to restore his libido and he has no choice but to send the slut packing. Once she's gone, of course, the problem instantly goes away and he can take care of things himself, jerking off to fantasies of her and him reuniting in his limo. But if he had wanted to _handle_ it on his own, he wouldn't have brought the fucking girl back to his room in the first place. He's never been so frustrated.

Not even his scotch holds the solace it once did. The more he drinks, the more she intrudes on his thoughts. Always laughing, smiling, dubbing him a coward, telling him that he isn't half the man Nathaniel is.

Coldblooded bitch.

Maybe he shouldn't have given up. Maybe he should have fought for her harder. Maybe he shouldn't have thrown that tape away. Maybe he should have…

Fuck!

It's done. He needs to move on. He'd let her go. She'd chosen Nate. No use dwelling on it. He's got other things to worry about. More pressing matters. Like this message that just arrived with a beep on his cell.

Gossip Girl specializes in rumors and revealing those secrets that are supposed to stay hidden, and from the looks of it this one certainly qualifies. It's a blast in the form of a photo. A nice candid of Serena buying what is clearly a pregnancy test along with a caption for those who are too clueless to figure out what the snapshot means on their own.

– Is "S" really with child? –

How could Serena be so stupid? She of all people should know better than to take chances! Hadn't whoring around with Georgina taught her anything? And then to have her bun in the oven be the spawn of that Brooklyn charity case! If she was going to get herself knocked up, she should at least have made sure the guy had the money to make the problem go away. It isn't like keeping it is an option. Chuck's soon-to-be stepsister can barely dress herself, let alone take care of a kid. An abortion is the inevitable Upper East Side solution, something easily taken care of on an afternoon when she is conveniently sent home from school with stomach flu so no one is the wiser, and the potential embarrassment is quickly avoided and never spoken of again. But now, because Serena was _sloppy_, had allowed herself to be caught red-handed as it were, everyone knows and this isn't exactly the kind of mess her friends can bail her out of.

Goddamn it!

His father is going to be pissed. Worse than pissed. Livid. There is nothing Bart hates more than when the Bass name becomes the focus of public ridicule, and this will set the tongues of the society matrons wagging for sure. The teenage daughter of his fiancée impregnated by a lowlife loser? Could there be anything more titillating to those dried up old hags in the Colony Club? Chuck thinks not, unless it had been _him_ who was responsible for Serena's condition. That would _definitely_ be more scandalous.

With a sigh, his finger hovers over a button on his mobile. One press, a fraction of force, and he'll reach his father, will be able to inform Bart of this latest crisis that doesn't involve his son although his father's disapproving tone will make him feel like it is somehow his fault, and he'll end up taking the brunt of Bart's annoyance at having to do damage control since he cannot exactly take it out on Lily van der Woodsen's idiot child until their marriage license is signed.

He gnashes his teeth, shoving the cell back in his jacket. Screw it. Let Serena enlighten his father. Chuck wants no part of the fallout when that goes down. He'll get enough of it as is.

Instead of calling, he goes to class. Using the time in speech and rhetoric, he prepares for the emotional onslaught that has become math. When that dreaded hour draws neigh, Nate slides up to the desk they share.

"Hey," his friend whispers sitting beside him as Chuck inwardly grimaces, fervently praying he is not about to be subjected to another play by play of the most recent romantic romp with the Waldorf. "Did you hear about Serena?"

Chuck's shoulders relax minutely. "Who _hasn't_ heard about Serena, Archibald?"

"Oh, right," Nate mumbles. "I was just… How could that happen man?"

"Well, you see Nathaniel," Chuck begins sardonically. "When a man and a woman love each other very much – "

"Ha ha. I meant, how could she _let_ it happen?"

Chuck shrugs, wondering the same thing. "It was probably an accident. Condom broke or something," he muses aloud. Then his lips twist into a disparaging sneer. "If Humphrey even knew enough about sex to _use_ one."

"Maybe he got caught up in the heat of the moment and forgot," Nate suggests, shifting slightly in his chair.

"Forgot?" Chuck repeats skeptically. "Putting on a rubber is not something one _forgets_. It's a deliberate _choice_, and a smart one at that."

"Yeah. Of course. Totally," Nathaniel agrees after a second, his voice overly bright.

Chuck glances at him, brows furrowing a little in suspicion. Could the golden boy have…? No. No, not possible. Not even _Nate_ is that dense.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of books and binders and boringness, but as the final bell rings, Chuck considers inviting Nathaniel over to get high and play Halo after school. It'll mean suffering through more talk of Blair, but at least if Nate is with him, he isn't banging her. A little agony this afternoon ensures a lot less agony tomorrow. The trade off is more than worth it.

He heads to the courtyard, looking for his best friend, knowing he usually hangs there for a while once classes let out. Rounding the brick corner into the quad, however, he halts. The golden boy is there alright. But so is she. And they're being all cutesy together. The perfect fairy tale couple.

Seeing them like that makes his stomach churn, his half-digested lunch rapidly rising to be tasted again. It is all he can do to keep the look of disgust off his face, to keep his expression neutral, like he is unaffected by their blatant display of affection. He knows he should turn around, walk away and not spare them another glance, but he can't get his feet to cooperate. He's rooted to the spot, unable to do anything but stare, feeling like his heart is breaking all over again as Blair caresses Nathaniel's cheek and their lips connect.

Envy rips at his insides, but still he's powerless. He can't do anything but keep watching, hating his own weakness, when unexpectedly she opens her eyes mid-kiss. Over Nate's shoulder, their dark gazes meet. Immediately, something crackles through the air between them, electric and so very _raw_. Then her mouth finds Nathaniel's again, and the moment is gone if it had ever been there at all.

Willing himself to breathe, Chuck finally regains control of his legs. He stalks slowly to his waiting limo, feeling like a knife is ripping through his soul and struggling to keep his fists at his sides so as not to succumb to the desire to clutch his abdomen to keep his metaphorical guts from spilling out of the metaphorical wound he's just received. Only once Arthur closes the door safely behind him, does he allow himself to gasp, curling in upon himself, burying his head in his hands.

That fucking bitch.

Why the hell doesn't she care for him? He knows her better than he knows himself, and yet she does not know him at all, doesn't _want_ to know him at all, is content to think him an insensitive monster and nothing he does can prove otherwise. She's more judgmental than that asshole Dan Humphrey!

God he needs a drink. _Several_ drinks. Enough alcohol to obliterate these terrible feelings of resentment and guilt and inadequacy. He is a Bass! He should be above this petty emotional jealousy crap.

In a burst of rage, he tears his newsboy cap off and flings it from him with a curse before reclining back against the seats and closing his eyes. With deadly calm, Chuck counts to fifty. He concentrates on relaxing, on letting his anger go, on inhaling the familiar scents of the limo. Leather upholstery, a whiff of tobacco, a hint of scotch, and there, very faint, a trace of vanilla more imagined than real.

He shudders. That sickeningly sweet phantom smell is always there now, hovering just out of awareness unless he deliberately focuses on it, or Georgina's cruel voice decides to encroach on his private thoughts, her mocking laughter ghosting through his mind at inopportune times, reminding him again and again that he will never fully be free of her haunting presence. He'd had a brief respite when he'd been with Blair, but ever since Monaco, the bitch was back. Yet another reason he should have known his relationship with Queen B was too good to be true, too good to last, too good to be anything but a pipe dream

Later that same evening, shortly after another attempt with a redhead he'd found in the Palace Hotel bar ends without success and he'd shouted at her to leave, there is knock at the entrance to his suite. Warily, he opens the door, hoping it isn't the drunken slut returning to further insult his stamina. But the person standing in the hallway is not her. It's Serena.

"Hi Chuck."

"Please, call me brother," he smirks, goading her, knowing how much she opposes the union between their parents.

She doesn't rise to the bait, however. "I need to talk to you," she says.

"About getting knocked up?" He gestures for her to come inside. "I must say I'm a little disappointed you weren't more careful."

Ignoring his comment, she strides past him and straight to the wet bar, plopping herself onto a stool. Chuck assumes she wants a beverage as she sits there in silence, but when he walks behind the counter, he isn't sure what he has that is suitable for someone in her condition to consume. Rummaging in the cabinets, he finds a bottle of sparkling water. That will work. He stands, reaching for a glass, discovering that she is peering at his reflection in the mirror over the bar intently.

"Chuck I really need to trust you," she begins, her tone conveying how serious she considers this matter. "I'm hoping that deep down inside you're actually a decent person and won't make me regret this."

What could she possibly regret telling him when everyone already knows her secret? Unless… Unless this isn't about the baby at all, but that look he'd shared with a certain Waldorf in the courtyard today. The ice princess must really be in a panic to have sent Serena to do her dirty work.

"You're here for Blair, aren't you?" he states, turning around to find confirmation etched on the blonde's earnest face. "Look," he sighs impatiently. "I'm not going to tell Nate about us. I tortured her, got bored, and moved on."

"There's no moving on just yet," she confesses. "The pregnancy test wasn't for me. It was for Blair."

He blinks, afraid that he'd heard her correctly. "What?"

"She won't take it," Serena explains in a rush. "So given that if she's pregnant, you're the fa – "

"No!" he replies emphatically, cutting her off. "We used a condom."

"Well obviously it broke!" she retorts, temper flaring at his immediate denial.

Her sudden fury confuses him momentarily, but then the truth of the situation dawns on him with absolute conviction. Serena doesn't know Blair has fucked more than one guy. "What is _obvious_ is that your best friend has kept you in the dark," he scowls.

"What are you talking about?"

"I said I handle my business," he grinds out. It is one of the few accomplishments he is proud of. He is _always_ safe.

Firstly because as often as he has screwed around, and with as many partners as he has had, it is beyond idiotic not to use protection. Who knows where those whores have been? He doesn't want his dick to fall off!

Second, he's grown up watching conniving bitch after conniving bitch try to swindle his father into matrimony by claiming they're having his baby, not realizing Bart had had a vasectomy after the death of his first wife. As Chuck got older some of these same gold diggers turned their attentions from father to son, knowing he'd inherit a billion dollar fortune and a Bass heir would guarantee them a portion of it. If that isn't incentive enough not to trust any chick who swears she's on birth control, he doesn't know what is.

And last, but definitely not least, is the pregnancy scare he'd had with Georgina. Sure, she'd been lying the entire time in order to manipulate him, but he had still been terrified enough to take measures to guarantee the possibility never occurred again. Spermicidal condoms every time, _without_ exception, and a nice little medicine bottle full of the morning-after pill just in case something untoward happened. Chuck Bass does not take chances when it comes to sex. He prepares for all eventualities, and handles his intimate affairs.

"Apparently _Nate_ doesn't," he continues, understanding at last the uncomfortable look Nathaniel had had on his face in class this morning. Shock registers in Serena's blue eyes at his claim. "They slept together just after we did," he elaborates in a detached manner. "It's _him_ you should be asking for help."

When Serena leaves a few awkward sentences later, he goes to pour himself a scotch. It's only as he has difficulty transferring the amber fluid from the decanter into his glass that he realizes his hands are trembling violently. His whole body is. He leans unsteady against the bar, sliding down the lacquered wooden paneling until he is slumped upon the floor.

Blair, _his_ Blair, might be pregnant because Nathaniel, that mother fucker, had _defiled_ her! Didn't respect her enough to take the steps necessary so she wouldn't ever have to go through something like this! Couldn't stop in his quest to get his rocks off long enough to care that he was putting her dream of attending Yale on the line! He hadn't even summoned enough concern after the deed was done to get her a prescription so her risk of conceiving was less!

That selfish prick.

She's got to be frightened. He remembers how frightened he was when he thought Georgina might've been pregnant. And she's essentially alone in her fear, like he was too! She shouldn't have to go through this by herself. She needs someone to support her, and it's Nate's blunder so he should fucking man up and be there by her side, no matter what the results!

Chuck pulls grabs his phone from his pocket, intent on calling the golden boy and notifying him that his girlfriend is scared shitless and needs him, but he stops just shy of pressing the 2 on his speed dial.

No, no he _won't_ tell Nathaniel. He'll be there for her instead. The kid _could_ be his. Probably isn't, but there was still a shred of possibility, and that's all the excuse he needs. He'll have a reason to talk to her tomorrow, and she'll have to listen so long as she might be carrying his child.

Hope glimmers faintly in his chest, a gentle fluttering he'd believed he would never feel again. This is his chance to show her that he isn't the heartless bastard she assumes him to be.

He arrives at school early the next day and loiters outside the quad, smoking to take the edge off his nerves, patiently waiting for her to appear walking down the sidewalk. Eventually she does, breezing past him so quickly that he has to hastily snuff out his cigarette to hurry after her.

As if she knows he is following, her pace increases. "Oh don't stop on my account," she tosses over her shoulder without turning her head.

"Oh I have to. Secondhand smoke is bad for the – "

She whirls, glaring at him. "I'm not pregnant!" she spits so venomously he almost reels from her words. "So goodbye mistake so far in my past I can hardly remember."

This is not precisely going how he had envisioned this playing out last evening. Perhaps she was under the impression that he had come to blackmail her again? Or gloat at her misfortune? If so, he can easily correct that assumption.

"You cannot be serious," he grins, the fingers of one hand reaching out, touching her stomach, trying to curl around her waist in a gesture of familiarity and tenderness.

She slaps his arm away, thwarting his attempt at comfort. "You can't be touching me," she snaps viciously, her mask of composure slipping for a second. Then, regaining her poised veneer, she adds with an exasperated sigh, "Look if you were gonna tell Nate, you would have done so in Monaco. But you don't want him to hate you, and you know he would. Game over."

Chuck swallows down all the taunts that immediately spring to his lips, but one still manages to escape. "Game's not over until I say it is." It isn't so much a threat, as a promise.

She smiles, that fake condescending twist of lips reserved especially for him. "Then have fun playing with yourself." With that parting shot, she whisks away, heading inside.

He stares after her for a moment deliberating, and before he even is fully cognizant of doing so, he has his cell cradled in his hands, typing furiously.

– GG. S not pregnant, covering for Blair. Same Blair whose sheets were rumpled by two guys in one week. –

His thumb pauses over the SEND key, hesitating.

Is this wise? Alerting Gossip Girl that Blair's been tumbled by more than one guy? Everyone will correctly identify one of the lucky two as Nate, but nobody will suspect the other was him, least of all Nathaniel. He'll most likely think it is just some rumor spread by a vindictive underclassmen recently hazed by Queen B. She, of course, will deny the validity of the entire thing because Nate is her one and only, and he will believe her. And even if he doesn't, if he ever has doubts at all, he will assume it was Carter she was with and not Chuck. Being the vilified bad boy of the Upper East Side has its advantages, and not being considered a contender for Blair Waldorf's pussy is one of them.

Other people know the truth though. Serena for one, and that Vanessa girl. S, however, shouldn't be a problem. She is Blair's BFF, and she won't risk messing that up again by airing her dirty laundry. She'll keep quiet like a good little confidant. Which leaves the boho barista. She's been to a couple events, tagging along with that baggage of Serena's, but no one really knows her except Humphrey, and even better, no one _wants_ to know her. If she does say anything, Blair will call her a liar, and Chuck will back her up, making it a case of their word against hers since the wannabe filmmaker no longer has the video tape of them discussing their first limo encounter as proof, and no one in their right mind is going to take the accusation of a lowlife from Brooklyn at face value when two of the most influential students at school are saying otherwise.

His jaw muscles flex subconsciously, and he presses the button, sending the damning text anonymously out to the best rumor monger in Manhattan. Now he just has to wait for the bomb to drop. It'll teach Waldorf not to disregard what he is capable of in the future. She thinks she is untouchable at the top of the social hierarchy? She doesn't even know how precarious a position she is in, and while this gossip won't make her fall without substantiating evidence to back it up, it will cast doubt on her image of perfection. She'll have to modulate her behavior even more than normal, because while the rest of the girls at Constance might have elevated her to elite status, they would still love nothing better than to knock her from her pedestal they'd put her on.

The message arrives right when school lets out as dozens of phones go off at once, a veritable chorus of beeps, and chimes, and dings, and buzzes. Chuck is outside when it happens, and soon people are approaching him, asking if he knows anything because he is close with both Nate and Blair.

"I don't know who it was," he sidesteps smoothly. "You know I – "

And suddenly he's being thrown backwards. It's so swift, he doesn't even have time to tense or struggle or fight the momentum. Just lets it transpire, and it's rather surreal, and on some level he recognizes instinctively that karma has finally caught up with him as he slams into the waiting limo.

"Did you sleep with her, huh?" Nate demands, face looming over Chuck's as he presses him harder against the trunk.

Chuck does nothing, merely looks at the outraged betrayal in his friend's eyes. He can't tell the truth, and he can't lie, and his silence is answer enough anyway. Nathaniel shakes him fiercely, fingers digging into his throat. "You son of a bitch!" he roars. "I ought to kill you!"

"Look," Chuck says evenly, still making no move to defend himself. There is no defense for his actions. They are inexcusable, and he deserves much worse than harsh words. "Can we talk about this without your hands around my neck?"

"What did you do?" Nate demands. "Did you get what you wanted like you did with all those other girls?"

Anger blazes in Chuck's belly. Why is everything always his fault? Why does everyone else get to walk away blameless time and again while he gets deemed the devil incarnate? _She_ had sought him out! _She_ had kissed him first! _She_ had said she was sure!

"Yes, Nathaniel," Chuck snaps. "I took what Blair kept throwing at you and you kept throwing back!"

"Oh, so somehow you screwing Blair for sport is _my_ fault?"

How dare Nate try to cheapen what they had shared that way! "It wasn't for sport!" Chuck asserts. "She needed someone and _I_ was there."

"Oh, so you _cared_ about her?" Nathaniel scoffs incredulous.

His dubious tone sets Chuck's teeth on edge. Why does nobody think him capable of emotion? He is a person just like everyone else. Just because he doesn't wear his fucking heart on his sleeve doesn't mean he doesn't feel! "You guys were broken up," he points out wearily.

With unexpected vehemence, Nate shouts into his face. "For how long? A week? An hour?"

He starts to storm away and Chuck winces in recollection. An hour? Not even. It was probably closer to… twenty minutes.

"Look, I am sorry!" he calls out, running after the golden boy, desperate to fix this. "I know how long you and I have been best friends, okay?"

"No, it's not okay Chuck," Nate snarls, shoving him back. "From now on, you just stay away from me."

And there it is. Condemnation in those cobalt eyes that have always only held acceptance before, that have never looked on him with anything other than trust and loyalty.

"Nate," Chuck whispers. A plea. A prayer.

"Did you hear what I said?" Nathaniel yells. "You stay the hell away from me Chuck!"

Then he's gone, and Chuck is left staring after him, immobile on the sidewalk, feeling like a piece of his psyche has been shattered. Nate was more than his best friend. He was the brother he'd never had, a living testimony that good people did exist in the world, a constant reminder that someone had faith that he could be good too. And now… none of that remains.

Slowly, he becomes aware that his classmates are gawking at him in silence, everyone stunned at the clash that had occurred in their midst.

"Show's over," he announces, climbing into the limo to escape their accusatory looks. He knows better than to wish that the altercation had gone undocumented, and before he even is able to get to the Palace Hotel his mobile chirps with an incoming text from Gossip Girl. He doesn't even bother to see how bad it is before he deletes it. What's the use in checking? It's got to be bad. Half the school had witnessed their blowup. The message probably contained a verbatim transcript of the entire argument complete with a picture montage!

Damn it to hell.

Back in his suite, he sits on the couch taking swigs straight from a fresh bottle of scotch. As the liquid burns down his throat, he thinks of the countless times his friend has slept here, all the things they have done since they were kids, the plans they had made, the children they had been, Chuck-and-Nate, the adults they would become, Charles-and-Nathaniel, always together, always a pair, the golden boy and the dark prince, inseparable, sharing a bond so strong classmates would've whispered they were gay had they not been who they were, a bond that was now utterly and irrevocably severed because a girl had come between them, a beautiful and self-centered girl who professed to love one and hate the other without even knowing what those terms meant outside of the fantasy movie she pretended her life to be.

A solitary tear rolls down his cheek as he swallows another mouthful of alcohol, already feeling it like acid in the pit of his empty stomach. He's lost them. The two most important people he's ever known now want nothing to do with him ever again. Not since that terrible night with Georgina has he ever felt so completely _alone_.

The next day, he doesn't go to school. He isn't ready to deal with the incriminating stares and hushed conversations that stop whenever he enters a room just yet. But from the flurry of texts arriving from Gossip Girl all day, each one meticulously detailing the dethroning of the onetime Queen of Constance, his bloodthirsty peers have more than enough dirt to occupy them in his absence. It's like sharks in a feeding frenzy, each minion craving a chance to add to the humiliation of their former leader, every lowly freshman ostracizing Blair just as swiftly as she had ostracized them.

If he hadn't been so fucking _numb_, he might have pitied her.

Late that afternoon, a different sort of message lights up his phone's screen. It's from _her_.

– We need to talk. Butai? –

Knowing he should ignore it, but unable to suppress his curiosity, secretly wishing her desire to speak to him is a form of peace offering, he types a short response.

– 8:30 –

He's at the restaurant by 8, perched on a stool at the bar in a pink pullover sweater that is rather too festive for what may very well be an extremely somber occasion. He wanted three words, eight letters from her before, and this evening he wants them again. Only not 'I love you.' No. No, tonight the phrase is 'I am sorry.' If she isn't coming to make amends, to accept some of the responsibility for the terrible mess three lives have become, he isn't sure what he'll do. But it is not going to be nice. If she admits some of the fault is hers, well… they can work something out.

He checks his watch. Anytime now. His eyes flick to the untouched scotch in front of him, hoping he won't need it, fearing that he will. He's already sent Arthur a text in preparation of the eventuality that she is not going to apologize. It's a… shopping list of sorts. Things he'll require his chauffer to obtain for him and have waiting when he returns to his suite.

At three past eight, Blair sidles up to him at the counter. He turns towards her, his face a frozen visage, knowing the outcome of this little chat depends entirely on the first words to leave her mouth.

"I came to congratulate you in person," she says.

Immediately, he reaches for his scotch, dreading what inevitably comes next in this never ending disaster the past two days have become. As he sips from the glass, he appreciates the bitter irony of the location Blair had chosen for what is to be their last meeting. 'Butai' is Japanese for 'stage,' and he is about to put on the performance of his life.

"You ruined my relationship with Nate, Serena, all of my friends," she continues, laying all the blame for everything at his feet like she always does. "Even little Jenny thinks she's too good for me so… Bravo. It's just like you wanted. I have nobody to turn to but you."

The tragic twist of fate in this situation is not lost on him. Blair has finally come to him, just as he had yearned for her to do. Only it wasn't because she wanted _him_. Oh no. It was merely because no one else wanted _her_. He wasn't her second choice, or even her third. He wasn't a choice at all. He was the last resort, the person she didn't even care for but whom she was fine using when she needed to be made to feel attractive, special, precious. A princess again. His princess.

"Actually, you don't even have me."

"Enough," she sighs, the ever innocent martyr.

"I'll try to be more _succinct_," Chuck spits. "You held a certain fascination when you were beautiful, delicate, and untouched. But now you're like… one of the Arabians my father used to own." He pauses, gathering the strength to do what must be done, to say what he knows will hurt her as badly as she has hurt him. Still, he can't look at her when he sneers, "Rode hard and put away wet."

He meets her eyes then, has to for the worst insult to be driven home. "I don't want you anymore," he lies. "And I can't see why anyone else would."

Dismissively, he glances away, ignoring her as he quickly gulps the rest of his scotch in an effort to keep the truth from spilling from his mouth. He sets the tumbler down, shoves it away. Steeples his fingers and presses them against his lips, forcing the words back, wishing she would say something, do something. Scream, yell, call him an ass, slap him, hit him with her purse, cause a scene. Anything but just sit there in shocked devastated silence.

After a painfully drawn out moment, mercifully she gets up and leaves, and only once the door to the restaurant swings shut behind her does he allow himself to slump in his seat, rotating his head to stare after her, regretting it had to end this way.

He phones Arthur to pick him up, making another call while he waits outside for the limo. When it pulls in front of the curb, he climbs in and lowers the partition. "Did you get everything?" Chuck inquires.

"It's all arranged like you requested, sir," his chauffer answers.

"Thank you," he mutters, raising the tinted glass once more.

Arriving back at the Palace, he returns to his suite and within half an hour, the escort he had ordered knocks at his door.

He surveys her. Chestnut curls. Chocolate eyes. Roughly the same size, although slightly fuller at hip and longer of leg.

She'll do.

"Put those on," he says gesturing toward a chair as he lets her in. "And there's perfume in the bathroom."

She looks, her glance landing on the neatly folded Constance Billard uniform, the opaque stockings, the headband. "Got a school girl kink?"

"You're not being paid to talk."

He strides from the room, allowing her time to change while he pours himself a scotch, hoping it'll wash away that sense of shame and nausea.

A few minutes later, she stands before him again. _She_ isn't _her_, nothing but a Canal Street knockoff, but tonight she is all he has.

Wordlessly, he takes her in his arms, crushing her to him, not kissing her, but burying his face in her hair, breathing in the scent of magnolia blossoms.

"Why, Blair? Why couldn't you apologize?" he whispers, so softly the prostitute barely hears him.

And feeling incredibly awkward, she raises a hand to pat the boy's back, fairly certain he is sobbing against her neck.


	31. Chapter 31

_Girl every time I see you_

_You're with a different man_

_You tell 'em that you love 'em_

_And then take everything you can_

_You're livin' life in the fast lane_

_You're no longer Daddy's girl_

_Can't stay with just one man_

_You gotta love 'em all around the world_

-Color Me Badd-

She crawls carefully from under the meaty arm draped over her. The likelihood of waking the already snoring oaf from his orgasm induced coma is rather small, but she isn't taking any chances. She smoothes the rumpled silk of her chemise back down over her hips as she gets out of the king-sized bed, feet sinking into the plush carpet soundlessly. The eager asshole hadn't even bothered to take it off her first before he started pumping his stubby cock into her, panting foul air into her face as sweat poured from his skin at the exertion his body was no longer used to handling. Thank God the disgusting act was over practically before it began.

With a disparaging sneer at the drowsing idiot she'd left alone on the mattress, she stalks to the bathroom, snatching her crimson and black robe on the way and hanging it on the little hook on the back of the door after she locks it firmly behind her. She desperately needs a shower, to wash his filthy smell and lecherous caress off her, and it would not do if he miraculously got up and decided to join her. She has had enough of the pig for one evening.

If he wasn't the Prince of Belfort, there is no way she would allow him to touch her in the first place. But he is, and so she does, using the difference in their ages and her pretended desire for him to twist him to her will, wrapping him around her slender fingers.

After all, a man past his prime is pathetically easy to manipulate. He wants to feel robust again, virile, attractive. A nubile young thing spread out beneath him, purring his name like he's irresistible is just what the vain fool requires in order to delude himself that he is not fat, old, balding, and gross. Of course, the obvious downside of this is that one actually has to sleep with the loser, revolting as the case may be. Sometimes one gets lucky, and the guy is so grateful for the pity fuck that he will more than make up for his lack of youthful vigor by lavishing intimate attention on her for hours, not wanting to disappoint the mid-life crisis fantasy girl in the sack for fear she will turn to some hotter, younger stud to satisfy her needs. Other times, well… If the selfish prick has to rush because he's too decrepit to get it up for more than a few minutes, he probably shouldn't be having sex in the first place. And it never fails that these are the imbeciles act like _they_ are doing _her_ a favor and not the other way around.

What is it about Viagra that makes ridiculous slobs think they are Lotharios between the sheets?

With a smooth motion, she whisks her slip over her head and drops it into the waste basket. There is no way she would willingly wear it again, the luxuriously fine material having absorbed too much perspiration from the obese bastard in the last ten minutes for her to ever consider it clean enough to adorn her porcelain flesh once more. A vigorous washing only can do so much, and why keep it when she can convince him to buy her a dozen replacements?

If she sticks around that long…

She steps under the warm spray, letting the sluicing water rinse all traces of him off her, thinking that things have been getting a bit _dull_ around here, and she craves excitement. She appreciates being treated like a princess day after day, but her elderly prince is shit as a lover however much he indulges her every whim outside the bedroom. And Switzerland itself, for all the fantastic skiing and breathtaking vistas, is not nearly as exhilarating as elsewhere in Europe.

However, her funds are somewhat limited at the moment. Her Goddamned parents had cut off her allowance when they'd discovered she was no longer a participant on the equestrian circuit like they had thought. But it wasn't like she had had much choice in the matter. She had sold her pony after all. Kind of hard to ride when one doesn't have a horse.

Then they had demanded she come home, like they had ever given a shit before, and she had told them where they could shove it and promptly skipped town. But she'd make the mistake of trying to access her mother's bank account in Los Angeles, and the investigative bulldog Mummy and Daddy dearest had hired to track her down was able to find her and force her to return to the Sparks' country estate. Upon her arrival, she had immediately been sent to rehab! Fucking rehab with all those kooks who had drug problems! It was beyond hellish, except for those few days she got to trade stories with Lindsay Lohan, but then the party girl bailed and Georgina was stuck by herself with all these counselors wanting to have group therapy and talk about her supposed substance abuse issues! Escape became tantamount to survival.

Three weeks, one pervy janitor, and a blowjob later, and she had been able to make a break for it. She'd hitchhiked down the Utah highway, stolen a credit card, and hastily booked a flight to Ibiza. Once on the small Spanish island, she'd met the porky prince, and the rest was history.

Now, though, the thrill of conning a wealthy royal is fading. Soon she will be beyond bored. The time to move onto a bigger, better challenge is rapidly approaching.

She hops from the shower, winding a towel around her head, and slipping into her robe. Tying the sash closed as she tiptoes past the still sleeping lump on the bed, she heads downstairs to the computer room. Logging on, she checks her email, deleting endless spam her junk mail filter never manages to catch, and finding little else of interest, except for one message sent just yesterday.

**Georgie,**

**Thought you'd be interested.**

**Carter**

Below the short note is a link to an outside website. She clicks on it, and the easily recognizable layout of Gossip Girl's blog begins filling her monitor. Why would Carter send her here? She doesn't care about what those immature Manhattan brats are up to. She is so _over_ petty high school rumors. The secrets _she_ trades in are ones that that are so closely guarded that nobody, not even Gossip Girl knows about them. Still as the page finishes loading and a picture appears, her eyes widen in recognition.

The snapshot is of Chuck Bass sprawled across the trunk of a limo with Nate Archibald screaming into his face while apparently strangling him.

What the fuck?

She scrolls down further, revealing the text that accompanies the photograph.

– My, my. Looks like Queen B's been busy. Banging the Boyfriend and the best friend? Classy. And why does this sound so familiar? But for now, it looks like the bromance is over, and B's throne is vacant. Any takers? –

Holy shit!

Reaching out a manicured hand, she immediately picks up the phone next to her laptop and dials one of the only numbers she has memorized. The instant the other line answers, she grins, "Hello Carter."

"Georgina! Long time no chat," he greets. "I take it you got my email?"

"Of course I did. Why else would I risk calling?"

"Touché," he says. "I was just worried that you'd stopped checking your email when you cancelled all your old means of contact."

"No, I kept this one. Mumsie and Popsie don't know about it, and therefore cannot trace it."

"Ah… Still on the run then?" Carter inquires.

"Always," she sighs. "So why did you think to send me the Gossip Girl blast?"

He chuckles, a sensual sound that makes her insides tighten. "Well I know you used to be quite invested in Bass Jr."

"As were you if memory serves," she points out.

He is silent for a second. Then he replies begrudgingly, "So I was."

"That's so precious," she taunts, knowing the motivation behind his pause. "You're still sore over the prodigal protégé getting one over on you with that gambling debacle."

"Yes, well _your_ game must really be slipping for you not to have already known what was happening with him in Manhattan," Carter sneers. "You used to be so much more _connected_."

"I am _still_ connected, Carter. Gossip Girl only posted this yesterday. I would have found it on my own without your help."

"Okay, fine. Since you know everything already, I won't tell you what _else_ is new in his world then."

"I…" she starts, gritting her teeth at being led into a position of having to admit ignorance. "You win. Spill."

He laughs, "Your darling _Chucky_ is getting what he's always wanted more than the Waldorf."

Georgina nearly chokes. "Bart Bass is getting married?"

"I told you that you were out of the loop," he whispers mockingly, rejoicing in catching her unawares. It happens so infrequently. "And it only gets better. Guess who the lucky lady is?"

"Who?" she asks, interest piqued.

"Your _other_ favorite pupil's mother."

"Lily van der Woodsen?" she screeches.

"The very same," he confirms. "I hear they're even moving in together in a few days. Looks like your babies will have more to bond over than just their hated of you."

Her fingers curl around the phone so hard her knuckles turn white. "Tell me _everything_."


	32. Chapter 32

_Do you believe that love can heal a broken dream?_

_And faith can move a mountain 'til it melts into the sea?_

_There's just one thing I want, just one thing I need_

_You to stand beside me and the power to believe_

-Wally Kurth-

He can't sleep. It isn't insomnia, although he's certainly suffered from that lately. No, right now it is this strange bed he decides as he shifts in a vain effort to get comfortable for the hundredth time in the past ten minutes. The mattress is too soft, the pillows too fluffy, the covers too heavy. Nothing is like what he is familiar with, everything is just a tad different, and Chuck finds the slight changes disturbing. A room may just be a room, but suite 1812 had been _his_ room and now he is stuck somewhere else because his father had announced it was time for the soon-to-be joined van der Woodsen and Bass clans to live together in pre-connubial bliss.

That was the plan anyway.

Not sure how well it is working out now that they are all here in the same quarters. It is too soon to tell really. Although Serena's vehement opposition to the whole idea was quite evident and had been from the moment the movers began bringing in boxes labeled 'CHUCK.'

Guess brother-sister bathing is _out_.

If he is honest, however, he shares some of her sentiments. He would be lying if he hadn't initially balked when Bart told, or rather _ordered_ him to relocate from the reassuringly sterile environment of his hotel room to an equally sterile penthouse. He most definitely _wants_ a family, but this first step towards becoming one fills him with trepidation. He doesn't know how to be part of a family, how to make himself fit into this Upper East Side version of the Brady Bunch, and from the look his father had given him right before dinner, neither does he.

Bart hadn't said anything to him of course. He hadn't needed to. He'd just given one of those slow burning stares full of disapproval before his son's actions even merited it and Chuck had inwardly cringed, understanding the meaning behind his father's severe gaze. Without words those ice blue eyes had told him with absolute authority not to fuck this up because he is used to being on his own, to doing what he pleases when he pleases with whom he pleases. Now his behavior better be above reproach or there will be hell to pay.

Feeling an urge to roll over again, he instead gets out of the bed with a muffled groan. Groping blindly in the darkness, he tries to find his lamp, but only succeeds in knocking something over.

"Shit," he mutters, tripping over whatever it was, and bumping into what he assumes is his dresser from the feel of the knobs digging into his stomach.

The entire layout of this place is _wrong, _he concludes ashis hands search along the wall for a light switch he knows must be somewhere even if he is having difficulty locating it_._ Nothing is where it is _supposed_ to be. Finally, his palm brushes over the panel and with a flick, brightness cuts through the inky shadows.

He squints at the sudden illumination and then scowls when he notices where he is. How the _hell_ did he manage to end up in his walk-in closet? How embarrassing. But at least now he can see well enough to turn on his television in his bedroom. Late night TV always sucks, but it's better than staring at the ceiling.

With sigh, he shrugs into his robe and sinks onto the edge of his mattress, flipping rapidly through boring channel after boring channel. Nothing looks remotely interesting, just a bunch of infomercials and re-runs of shows that nobody cares to watch anymore. Maybe he should play Halo instead.

After powering up the X-box, he flops down prepared to shoot anything that moves. However, he can't seem to get past the opening menu. A lump forms in his throat at the theme music and he realizes he hasn't touched this game since his argument with Nate. It was _their_ game, and they haven't spoken since that awful fight two weeks ago right before spring break and that… that is the longest they've ever gone without speaking since they were five.

Fuck it. Best behavior or not, he _needs_ a drink. Padding to the kitchen, he pours himself a scotch and tiptoes back to his room. He barely has a chance to sit when a gentle rapping on his door causes him to freeze.

Crap!

Lily must be a light sleeper and he'd woken her and he'll catch shit for it from his father in the morning and he had just _known_ he should have muted the volume on the television!

"Yes?" he calls softly, attempting to hide his drink under a hastily grabbed blanket so that he doesn't get yelled at for even more things come breakfast.

But as the door opens a fraction, it isn't Lily peering in but Eric.

.

"Eric?" he whispers. "Did I wake you? Is the TV too loud?"

"No," the younger boy replies. "I just couldn't sleep and saw your light was on. Mind if I come in?"

"Yes. I mean, no. I mean…" Chuck's voice trails away and he makes a gesture that encompasses his room in a broad sweep. "Make yourself comfortable."

Closing the door behind him, the blonde picks up a pillow and seats himself cross legged on the floor, leaning against the foot of the bed.

"I'd offer you a drink," Chuck mumbles into the awkward silence that descends. "But, well, the liquor's downstairs, you're too young and Serena would kill me if she knew."

"You were drinking before you were my age," Eric says. "Serena too."

The kid has a point. Still…

"Look how well that's turned out," Chuck smirks. "For me and for her."

"Serena's been doing okay lately, and you seem to be fine yourself," Eric answers.

"Yeah, well tell that to my father," Chuck snorts.

"I'd… rather not," the younger boy admits, glancing up at him before looking away quickly. "He kind of… scares me."

At that admission, Chuck feels his lips twist in a hint of a smile. "He scares me too," he nods. "He's only got one facial expression." When Eric almost chokes on his own saliva, he adds, "What? You know it's true. Don't tell me you haven't noticed."

The blonde makes a small, strangled sound of repressed mirth, so Chuck bends down to slap him on the shoulder. "It's okay. You can laugh. I won't tell anybody," he assures him. Before Eric can respond, though, he motions towards the television. "You want to play? I'll go easy on you."

Eric breaks into a grin. "Don't bother. I've got more than enough skills to kick your ass on my own."

"Cocky. I like it," Chuck declares, ruffling the blonde's hair. He tosses him the extra wireless controller and brings up the game customization screen.

"Your armor is pink?" Eric states as Chuck selects his usual character.

"What? Is there a problem with that?"

"No, it's just…" Eric stammers. "It's a _war_ game and you're in _pink_."

"So?" Chuck glowers, remembering a similar conversation with Nathaniel "Real men wear pink."

"I never said they didn't. I was just a bit surprised," Eric swallows. "Although now that I think about it," he continues, his eyes flicking to Chuck's silk pajamas visible beneath his robe, "I shouldn't have been."

Following Eric's gaze, Chuck looks down at himself, sees the pastel pink stripes. "That's it. I'm changing it," he bristles, scrolling through the other available armor colors. "How about purple?" he says, raising one brow at the blonde, a challenge in his expression.

"Real men _definitely_ wear purple."

"I'm glad you agree."

The first game goes to Chuck, but the scores were so close that Eric demands an immediate rematch. This time, he wins.

"Yes!" he exclaims, pumping one fist into the air in triumph. As he does so, the sleeve of his nightshirt slides down, revealing an angry red scar along his wrist.

Catching a glimpse of it, understanding instantly what it is, Chuck gasps in shock before he can help himself. Then Eric, noticing the exposed scar after Chuck's inadvertent reaction tenses and quickly tugs his cuff back down. Neither of them says anything for a long moment. They both just stare resolutely forward at the flickering TV.

Eventually, Eric breaks the silence. "Well," he sighs. "Aren't you going to ask about them?"

"Do you want me to ask?" Chuck answers.

Eric is taken aback by that response. "I…" he shakes his head in bafflement. "It's just that most people ask."

Chuck wishes he hadn't drained his scotch twenty minutes ago. "I'm not most people."

"So… you don't want to know then?"

He lets his dark eyes meet Eric's frightened expression. "Oh I do," he confesses. "But I figure it isn't any of my business and if _you_ want me to know, you'll tell me. So why pry?"

"Why pry?" Eric repeats incredulous.

"Unless you'd rather I pry," Chuck counters, attempting to lighten the mood. "I can speed dial my P.I. if you'd like."

Eric blinks astonished, thinking he is joking. "You have a private investigator on speed dial?"

"Doesn't everyone?" Chuck teases.

"No," Eric says, a ghost of amusement in his tone. "No, I'm pretty sure they don't."

"That's a shame," Chuck pouts, faux serious. "It makes gathering Intel so much easier."

Eric smiles the slightest bit at that, and the horrible vice of panic that had clamped around Chuck's chest when he had seen that scar, had realized that someone he knew had come so close to killing themselves without his knowledge, finally begins to relax.

"You're not creeped out? You don't think I'm a freak?" Eric inquires, his voice so vulnerable and young sounding.

"No," Chuck breathes honestly. He hasn't ever quite done _that_, but he's done things that are nearly as bad. He'd fucked more girls that he can count, done every drug known to man, drank himself into oblivion time and again, and had even almost willingly slept with Georgina for goodness sake! Who is he to judge?

"Once people know, they get weird," Eric complains, more to himself than to Chuck. "Everyone's so _careful_ around me. Like one bad thing and I'll break or something."

"And will you?" Chuck retorts gently.

"No," Eric claims. "I'm fine now."

"Okay then," Chuck asserts. "So how about we break our tie?" He points to Eric's controller. "Best two out of three? Winner gets bragging rights?"

For a few seconds, Eric just peers at him curiously, as if he doubts Chuck is really not going to press about the suicide attempt. Then he beams, his face transforming into a boyish grin Chuck can't help returning. "You're going down!" he promises.

"Bring it," Chuck taunts.

Three hours later, after numerous games and no clear victor between them, Eric yawns. "I should get some rest," he murmurs, rubbing his eyes. "School starts again tomorrow."

"Right… school," Chuck gulps. "Night little brother."

"Night Chuck," Eric waves groggily as he walks to the door. "And… thanks for everything."

"Don't worry about it."

The next morning, Chuck rises early despite having almost no sleep. It had occurred to him while watching the sun come up that he should annoy Serena. It _is_ the brotherly thing to do, and if he is sly about it, his father won't ever know.

While she is preoccupied picking out shoes to wear with her uniform, he sneaks into her bathroom and turns on the shower.

"Huh?" he hears her say before she starts to open the door.

"Just a minute!" he shouts. "I'll be right out."

"What the hell Chuck?" she snarls. "You have your own bathroom! Why are you _invading_ mine?" Still, she stomps away.

A couple minutes pass, and then Serena is back, pounding impatiently on the door. Or perhaps _not_ impatiently, he smirks. He has been in here a while.

"Chuck, I'm serious!" she cries. "Are you done yet? This is my bathroom! It's late, and not to mention disgusting!"

Tuning out her rant, he picks up her lotion dispenser. The bottle may be nondescript, but as he squeezes some into his palms and rubs it into his skin, he recognizes the powdery floral scent as that of Crème de la Mer. Nice. Now if only they had a product line for men…

Seconds later, more furious knocking, followed by Serena shouting his name in warning before she just bursts in. "What are you doing?" she demands as she looks at him in bewilderment perched atop the marble counter, fully dressed, smoking, the shower running absently in the background.

"All right ladies," he calls behind her. "My sister needs to shower. Make room!" Serena whirls horrified, only to spot the empty stall. "I'm just messing with you," he confesses smugly, thinking that it is just so much _fun_ riling her up. She makes it so easy.

Not the least bit amused by his behavior, Serena snatches his joint away, snuffing it in the sink. "I can't _believe_ you lit up in my bathroom!"

"Well if I lit up in mine, then the folks would know it was me, Sis," he drawls sardonically.

Serena bristles. "Oh, okay. Let's get one thing straight," she fumes. "Our parents may be insisting we blend our households, but I am _not_ your sister! I do not share any of your DNA, nor do I ever wish to."

The opening is just too good to let pass. "Then I suggest you get new hand towels," he deadpans.

With extreme strength of will, she avoids rising to the bait, although her jaw clenches. "Okay, it is imperative I bathe," she explains wearily. When he merely reaches for his discarded joint, she grabs his shoulders. "Can you just get out?" she shrieks.

Enjoying this game, he ignores her and places the slim cylinder between his lips, intent on goading her further. It works.

"You know what?" she spits. "Fine! Just forget it!" Petulantly, she jerks the rolled cigarette from his mouth, throws it down, and storms out.

God, he loves having siblings.

It almost makes up for the loss of –

No. No he is not thinking about _that_. Nothing good lies at the end of that path, only pain and loneliness and regret.

Nonchalantly, he waits until he hears the unmistakable sound of her bedroom door slamming before exiting the bathroom. Descending the stairs after her, Chuck finds Eric peering anxiously over the railing.

"What are you doing?" Serena asks him.

"I'm hiding from my valet," Eric says quite seriously. "He wanted to put my socks on for me this morning." Shaking his head, Chuck claps Eric on the shoulder, propelling him down the rest of the steps. "You're servants are very attentive," the younger boy continues.

Unable to resist yet another opportunity to tease Serena, Chuck whispers conspiratorially to Eric, "You should meet Bergita, the new Latvian maid."

"No! No he should not meet Bergita! He's fourteen!" Serena exclaims, leading Eric away. "Avoid this person," she adds with an angry look at Chuck.

"May I remind you Serena that you used to have a sense of humor?"

"No."

The three of them enter the dining room, finding it already occupied by their soon-to-be married parents and an elaborate breakfast buffet.

"Morning Father," Chuck greets.

"Morning kids," Bart mumbles, not even looking up from his newspaper.

"And how is Lily von Bülow today?" Chuck inquires, lifting Lily's hand to drop a chivalrous kiss onto the back of it, noticing she is wearing dark oversized shades _inside_.

"Oh, I have a headache," she sighs dramatically. "I had a _very_ frustrating conversation with the wedding planner this morning."

"Well may I say aggravation becomes you?" he replies, knowing that compliments make all women feel better.

"You may," Lily acquiesces coyly. "But I won't believe it." Still, the slightest flush colors her cheeks as she removes her ridiculous sunglasses. "So, first day back at school, huh?" Then her voice trails off, her gaze raking over Serena picking over the fruit platters. "Honey, you didn't uh… want to shower?" she ventures with perhaps less tact than one would expect from a lady of good breeding.

Across the table, Chuck suppresses a laugh as Serena scowls at him. "I have to go meet Blair," she announces, plucking a croissant from the pastry tray.

At hearing _her_ name tossed out so casually, Chuck tenses. He barely manages to keep his expression neutral and disinterested. He hasn't seen Blair since that awful night at Butai, and Gossip Girl hasn't reported any sightings of the Waldorf other than that either. The former Queen B has been missing in action, but today he is going to have to face her. He'd known this moment was coming, but still hadn't been anticipating his heart to clench quite so acutely at the mere mention of her.

Bitch.

"Eric?" Serena says expectantly, waiting for her brother to join her on the walk to school.

Before Eric can begin to rise, however, Chuck intercedes. "Go ahead," he tells Serena. "We'll take the limo."

Caught between them, Eric shrugs and with a huff Serena leaves, her annoyance at the entire situation palpable. It makes Chuck smirk in satisfaction.

After she goes, Bart finally glances up from the business section of the Times. "As my best man," he states, "I expect you to keep things smooth until after the wedding."

"Best man?" Chuck exhales, swallowing past the emotions flooding his chest. "I'm… I'd be honored sir." He dares a small smile, wondering if perhaps a woman's calming touch was all his father needed to forgive his son and take pride in him. "To family," he toasts suddenly, lifting his orange juice and as his crystal goblet clinks with first Lily's, then his father's, and lastly with Eric's, Chuck feels like maybe losing his best friend and his first love are not the end of the world after all.

During the ride to school, he makes plans to meet Eric for lunch before the blonde saunters off to get books from his locker. Chuck is left leaning against the concrete ledge in the courtyard, pretending to pay attention to the guys chatting near him when he sees Blair walking up to the school with Serena. The sight causes his lungs to constrict. He can't breathe as he drinks the sight of her in like he's been starving.

Her chestnut curls are lovelier than he remembers, and for once she doesn't have her trademark headband on to restrain the luxuriant tresses from cascading around her shoulders. They hang loose and free, just begging to be messed up by eager fingers burying themselves in their softness. Her periwinkle jacket offsets the porcelain of her skin, making her seem luminescent, and as she nears the steps, she holds her chin high, her poise undeterred by the crowd of people staring and gasping and blatantly whispering snide remarks, not even bothering to hide their cruel comments behind their hands. Through it all, she is an ethereal beauty gracing the Upper East Side with her presence.

God, he admires her courage.

Then Jenny Humphrey, that Brooklyn upstart, flicks a spoonful of yogurt at her. The wannabe's aim is perfect, and it lands with a splat in Blair's immaculate brown mane, ruining her self-assured ascent up the stairs. Instantly, everyone bursts into vicious jeering laughter, some even snapping photos to send to Gossip Girl in case anyone missed the public humiliation this morning. Chuck watches as that aura of dignity Blair was so flawlessly projecting shatter seconds before Serena rushes her inside and away from their mocking classmates.

Glaring at Jenny, thinking the little bitch should be careful, Chuck heads inside as well. Humphrey's kid sister has no idea who she is going up against. Blair may not be on top at the moment, but she will be soon enough. It's the natural order of things. Blair is, and always will be, a Queen. She knows how to keep her eyes on the prize, and it's simply a matter of _when_, not _if_, she'll reclaim her throne. In the meantime, she'll keep track of who is loyal and who is not, and woe to any who cross her, mistakenly thinking she is beaten. She isn't. The phoenix has _nothing_ on a Waldorf.

Then again, her face had looked so devastated seconds ago. He hasn't seen her like that since… Well, since he'd compared her to a horse. Not even a horse, if he's honest with himself. Rode hard and put away wet? No. No that was an apt description for a whore, and that was exactly how he'd intended her to interpret the phrase. He'd deliberately called her a whore because she had used him like a whore for months, someone to get her off and make her feel good, and when the secrecy she had enforced on their relationship and the lies she had told to Nathaniel afterwards eventually blew up in her face, she had blamed him for it all while she acted the ever innocent victim. His words that night may have been harsh, but he was more than justified in saying them.

Right now, though, he's worried she hasn't fully recovered from the sting of his utter rejection. Sure getting food thrown at her in front of the majority of the student body was embarrassing, but regardless she should have been able to make an overconfident freshman quiver with just a glance. She is Blair _fucking_ Waldorf, not some lowly minion with ambitions above her station!

Maybe she needs a reminder…

He's almost outside again when he realizes where his feet are inadvertently carrying him. Forcing himself to stop, he tries to shake off the nagging sense that he should help her. She doesn't need his help, he admonishes himself sternly. She doesn't need him or want him or love him. He is nothing to her, and damn it she _will_ be nothing to him, no matter how much the sight of her exposed and vulnerable had taken his breath away. He does not care for her anymore. At all.

At lunch, however, he finds himself making excuses to drift past the Met with Eric. The boy wants a hotdog and well… the best cart has to be one parked near there. As they stroll by, he catches a glimpse of her perched on the steps with only Serena in attendance. Nearby, the rest of her old court snubs her, deigning to eat with the likes of Little J rather than Queen B.

That's it.

"Come on, Eric," Chuck says, throwing his arm around him.

"Where are we going?" the younger boy asks as Chuck guides them in the opposite direction of Saint Jude's.

"A stationary store."

Eric squints up at him. "A stationary store? Right now?"

Chuck messes up the blonde's wavy hair. "I need to pick up a card," he grins. "It's important."

With Eric's assistance, Chuck selects a card. On the front is a reproduction of one of the surviving portraits of Elizabeth I, England's most famous Queen. He couldn't have requested anything more perfect. Inside, he jots a quick note.

_You can't make people love you, but you can make them fear you._

Leaving it unsigned, he licks the envelope, sealing it shut. He'll drop it in her locker before his next class. It should be all the motivation she'll need to regain her resolve to fight for what is rightfully hers.

Those bitches won't stand a chance.

**A/N:** As some of you probably know, this story tied for first place in the Best Work-In-Progress Fanfic at Gossip Girl Kool-Aid. Thank you so much to everyone who voted for it. I was honored for it to be nominated, and floored when it won. *hugs*


	33. Chapter 33

_In my daydreams, in my sleep_

_Infatuation turning into disease_

_You could cure me_

_See all you have to do now is please try_

_Give it your best shot and try_

_All I'm asking for is love_

_But you never seem to have enough_

_I've gotta feel you in my bones again_

_I'm all over you, I'm not over you_

_I wanna taste you one more time again_

_I'm all over you, I'm not over you_

-The Spill Canvas-

6:15

With a grimace, he pulls the cuff of his blue suit back over his watch. Almost time for the family supper and _he_ is even now making out with Serena. Chuck had seen them dashing up the steps, pawing one another before they ever made it into her bedroom. It's only natural he supposes as the Brooklyn baggage had been gone for spring break and Serena had been denied his disgusting attentions, but she could do so much better and the thought of them getting hot and heavy kind of turns his stomach. But since the schmuck is obviously still going to be here in fifteen minutes, he may as well stay for dinner. Serena would like that.

"Hey," Chuck says, sticking his head into the kitchen. "Sorry for the last minute change, but there's going to be six at dinner this evening instead of five, so please adjust accordingly."

Without waiting for an answer, he strolls towards the stairs. Best not to have Lily go up to fetch Serena only to discover her daughter engaged in a grope fest with the lowlife. That would probably not go over too well.

Padding down the hallway, he rolls his eyes when he sees Serena's door hanging wide open. She really needs to learn the finer arts of _discretion_. Especially if she's going to be getting horizontal with Humphrey, as from the look of things it appears they are close to doing on her bed.

"Dan," Chuck greets loudly as he leans against the doorframe, trying not to let his sheer dislike of the guy penetrate his tone. The loser is dating his sister, and he seems to make her happy, so he will be civil to the asshole, at least until Serena comes to her senses.

"Chuck," Dan acknowledges a bit chagrinned, sliding over so he isn't exactly straddling the blonde. "How are you?"

"Excellent," Chuck replies, pleased that he is able to make polite small talk with the charity case. "Enjoying having a family around."

Rolling onto her stomach, Serena glares at him in exasperation. "Can you just get it over with Chuck?" she snaps, not understanding what a major concession him referring to her boyfriend by his first name actually is or how different their brief conversation had been as opposed to every other time they have spoken. "Say whatever pervy thing you're going to say and just leave."

"The wedding caterer is presenting a tasting to the family," Chuck explains. "I was coming to call you down for dinner."

"Okay, I'll take off then," Dan mumbles, starting to rise from the mattress.

"No need," Chuck assures him. "I already asked the staff to set a place for you." At their shocked silence, he turns and walks from the room, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. See? He can be a good brother as well as an annoying one. Maybe he should even make a game of it, so that Serena is constantly wary of what he is going to do. That has a lot of possibilities. It would also be a ton of fun.

Having siblings is beyond awesome.

They're in the middle of the dinner, Chuck heavily favoring the chestnut pappardelle over the foie gras as it is a bit too rich and idiotic Humphrey mispronouncing the name of every other entrée, when a gift arrives for Serena.

"Who's it from?" Eric asks as she gently shakes the silver wrapped box with the golden ribbon.

"I don't know," she singsongs playfully. "But it says open immediately." She turns to Dan, clearly believing it is from him although from his body language alone Chuck can tell it is not. "Do I have to refrigerate it?"

Dan shakes his head helplessly. "No, it's not from me," he admits. "I don't know."

Nonplussed, Serena begins opening the present, but Lily protests. "Oh don't put your dirty package on the table," she fusses.

"If I had a dime for every time I heard that…" Chuck smarms under his breath to Eric, causing the boy to choke back a snort.

"That's enough, Chuck," Bart warns, giving him a hard look.

Instantly, Chuck wipes the smirk off his face and shifts uncomfortably under Bart's stare. He should have known better than to say anything. His father always did have incredible hearing.

Then Serena lifts the lid of the box, pushes back the tissue paper lining, and her distraught exclamation draws Bart's focus away from Chuck.

"Porn and handcuffs?" she cries, holding up the items in disbelief. "Really?"

"Oh my," Lily gasps.

Dan gulps, his eyes huge. "Wow."

Chuck is still figuring out an appropriate response when Serena thrusts the offending gift at him, her expression icy. "This is _low_ Chuck. Even for you!" she hisses.

"What?" he calls after her as she stomps from the parlor. "I didn't send this." He tosses the package back onto the coffee table.

Why the hell did she assume he would he send something so tasteless? Then his lips twitch slightly as he muses that it _is_ something he might do just to see her reaction. But not in front of the parents! That's a bit crass even for him.

A pregnant pause descends, and Dan eventually clears his throat. "Well if you'll excuse me," he apologizes as he rises to follow his girlfriend.

"Uh, if you could…" Lily interrupts his exit, gesturing to the discarded present.

Comprehending her near silent request, Dan's face lights up. "Oh yeah. My pleasure," he says, quickly grabbing the box. Then a flush colors his cheeks. "Uh… It's not… That's not…" he stammers, realizing what his eagerness had suggested. "It's uh… It's trash. I'll throw it out."

Chewing thoughtfully, Chuck watches him go wondering who _would_ send something like that to Serena. She is too generous with her affections and overly friendly with everyone. Perhaps some poor sap got the wrong idea, thinking she liked him. When he found out otherwise and got rejected, he was undoubtedly pissed and she probably doesn't even remember blowing the unfortunate bastard off! Serves her right that the pathetic would-be Romeo had sent her an embarrassing present. It's a bit hilarious actually. Maybe he should consider doing the same to a certain chestnut haired beauty…

His heart constricts with the thought, and he hastily excuses himself from the remainder of dinner, needing to be alone. He'd hoped that Blair might have approached him that afternoon to ask about the card he'd slipped into her locker, but that had been a foolish wish. He hadn't signed it of course, but he knew he didn't need to for her to know it was from him. Blair would recognize his handwriting, and maybe it would be the first step towards... well, towards something other than what they are now. But in the end, all he'd gotten for his effort was the shredded remains of the thing left unceremoniously with Arthur after school.

Bitch.

Later that evening, Chuck is lying on top of his covers, staring at the ceiling, still fully dressed, wishing he could get his memories of Blair to leave him alone long enough so he could sleep when a familiar knock occurs on his door.

"It's okay to open it, Eric," he mutters, sitting up.

"Good," the blonde whispers, stepping inside. "I was hoping you'd be up."

"And so I am. Close the door."

Pulling the door shut behind him, Eric turns around and plops onto the floor in his pajamas. "No video games tonight?"

"No," Chuck shrugs. "Just… thoughts."

"That's okay. I didn't really want to play anyways."

"Oh? Then why'd you drop in? Something keeping you up as well?"

"Not something," Eric breathes. "Someone."

That catches Chuck's interest. "You got a crush?"

The younger boy blushes slightly. "It's a little more than that."

"Ah," Chuck grins. "So you're _seeing_ a girl then?"

"Uh… sort of," Eric dodges.

"Sort of?" Chuck repeats undeterred, arching one brow quizzically.

Eric looks at him for a long moment, and then rotates his face away. "Yeah," he admits finally. "I guess you could say that I'm sort of seeing someone."

Chuck peers at the back of Eric's head, brain racing, attempting to dissect this conversation, searching for clues. Dealing with Georgina had taught him to spot the signs people inadvertently give away when they are trying to hide something, and right now Eric's behavior is definitely raising the warning flags. The boy is practically exuding anxiety. Why is he so freaked?

Eric sighs into the tense silence, and suddenly he blurts, "Chuck, have you ever had a secret that was _extremely_ important, but you were terrified to tell anyone because they might look at you differently if they knew?"

Okay, so he _had_ been reading the blonde correctly. Now to tread carefully and seek more information.

"Yeah," Chuck replies with practiced nonchalance, remembering the evil whore's words to him after she'd stolen his virginity.

"_The little prince isn't so charming anymore," _she had said that awful night._ "He's dirty. Soiled. She'd never look at you again if she knew."_

"So…" Eric continues. "What did you do?"

Chuck swallows. "I didn't tell," he answers honestly.

"Oh." Such a despairing sound.

"But I wish I had," Chuck adds quickly, realizing for the first time that it is true. If he had told immediately, maybe the hell spawn would not have been able to manipulate him the way she had. At the very least, he would have had more options. Keeping what happened a secret had only trapped him into a life he had not wanted.

Eric leans back against the foot of the bed, titling his chin up so he can meet Chuck's gaze. "You still could," he points out.

"No. No, I lost my shot," Chuck mumbles bitterly, ruffling Eric's wavy hair. "It's too late."

"It's never too late, Chuck."

He shakes his head. "Believe me it is. Five years is a little too long to wait to spring out this sort of confession."

"Five…?" Eric blinks in confusion. "So this isn't about Blair and Nate then?"

"Not really, no," Chuck snorts, narrowing his eyes at the younger boy, sensing how deftly Eric had maneuvered their discussion away from himself. "So what's _your_ secret?" he inquires.

At once, Eric turns away, drawing his knees up to his chest, his shoulders hunching.

Okay. That was obviously too direct. Maybe a more circuitous route would have been better.

"This _person_ you're seeing?" Chuck says, trying again, deciding humor may just be the best option in the circumstances, given what he suspects. "It isn't your best friend's girlfriend, is it?"

Eric suppresses a snicker. "No definitely not."

"Good," Chuck nods faux-serious. "Because I can tell you from experience that _that_ doesn't work out too well."

"Right. I imagine not."

"Do you know what's really sad though?" Chuck states somberly. "I convinced myself that just maybe it'd all turn out okay somehow in the end."

"Well, you didn't know – "

"But that's the thing. I _did_ know! I knew it was a bad idea the whole time and I just didn't care," Chuck laughs, and his tone lacks all mirth. "I did it anyway. I was attracted to Blair. I knew I shouldn't be. She was dating Nate, and she kept giving me plenty of reasons not to like her, but I just couldn't stop. I kept seeing sides of her I didn't know were there and getting drawn in deeper and deeper and it all just got way out of hand until I…" His words fade into nothing.

"Slept with her?" Eric prompts after a while.

"Fell in love with her," Chuck whispers, closing his eyes as he finally admits it out loud and the pain of losing her grips his heart even stronger with the revelation. At Eric's shocked intake of breath, he smiles sadly. "Pretty funny, huh?"

There is a long pause before Eric responds. "I don't think so," he eventually says. "Blair can be…"

"A bitch?"

Eric coughs in what is certainly an attempt to cover a snort. "I was going to say difficult."

"You're quite tactful, you know that?"

"I try," the younger boy acknowledges. "But no, seriously I _get_ that Blair can be a… pain sometimes, but she can also be pretty cool too. She…" His voice trails off in deliberation. Then he abruptly announces, "She helped break me out of the Ostroff Center once."

"What?" Chuck sputters. "You were in the Ostroff Center?"

"Yeah," Eric sighs. "After my…" He holds up a wrist, gesturing at the scar. "Anyway," he continues without preamble. "Blair came in pretending to be having a Britney Spears meltdown to distract the front desk so Jenny could sneak me out. It was really nice of her. I hated it in there, and being free, even for a little while was worth it."

Hesitantly, Chuck reaches down to touch Eric's arm in a show of sympathy. "I bet."

"So I can understand why you care for Blair," Eric reaffirms, meeting Chuck's gaze again. "She may act one way most of the time, but every now and then she'll surprise you. It's almost like she's two different people."

"Yes, that's it precisely."

"But does she know how you feel about her?" the blonde asks.

"Well she should, I mean – " Chuck stops, his brow furrowing in sudden comprehension. "Since when did this conversation become all about me? I'm the older brother here. I'm supposed to be the one giving advice."

"Sorry," Eric smirks, rising to pad towards the door. "Force of habit."

"I never would have guessed," Chuck scowls, thinking that his brother is rather a clever little bastard.

"Have you _seen_ my mom and my sister?" Eric teases. "They don't exactly know how to think things through in advance, so I've _had_ to be the responsible one."

"Well maybe it's time to let someone else look out for you for a change," Chuck retorts.

"Touché. Night Chuck."

"Night." The door starts to shut, but Chuck speaks again before it closes all the way. "Eric?"

"Yeah?"

Staring into those trusting brown eyes, Chuck decides to throw caution to the wind. "Are you gay?" he says bluntly.

Eric pales. "What? No!" he denies.

"Okay. I just thought – "

"Well you thought wrong!" Eric snaps, cutting him off.

"Fine."

With an exasperated noise, Eric slams the door behind him.

Fuck.

Springing off his bed, Chuck races to open the door. "But _if_ you were," he calls out softly to Eric's retreating form. "If you were, I wouldn't care."

Eric halts, but does not turn around. "Chuck, I…" After a second, his shoulders relax. "Thanks."

"There's no need," Chuck assures him. "But if you wanted to play Halo tomorrow, I think I may have enough time in my schedule to kick your ass."

"In your dreams!" Eric boasts, flashing Chuck a grin that makes his own taut muscles ease.

"Goodnight Eric."

"Ditto."

The next morning, another envelope arrives addressed to Serena. Since the blonde had already left, Chuck intercepts the gift so that their parents do not catch sight of it. After breakfast, while waiting for the limo to pull up to the curb to take them to Saint Jude's, Chuck surreptitiously hands it over to Eric. "Here."

The younger boy squints at the oversized card. "What's this?"

"Came for Serena," Chuck replies. "I thought she might want to open it outside the house. Just in case. Make sure she gets it."

"Why don't you just give it to her yourself?" Eric inquires.

"I'm pretty sure Serena wants me to stay away from her right now," Chuck drawls.

"But why?"

"Serena still thinks I'm responsible for yesterday's undesired gift, so call it a hunch and besides – Crap! There's Bart!" Chuck hisses as he sees his father descending the steps and heading their way. "Hide it! Hurry!"

Hastily, Eric shoves the envelope into his bag moments before Bart joins them on the sidewalk.

"Hello again boys," Bart deadpans. "I need the limo after it drops you off this morning, so I thought I'd accompany you to save time."

On the short drive, Bart buries himself in a newspaper while Chuck discusses the possibilities for the upcoming bachelor party. It will be his last, not to mention only, chance to have a boy's night out with his father, and Chuck wants nothing more than to include Eric in the festivities. "I say we take the jet to Croatia where young Eric here can exploit the lesser age of consent," he suggests.

Eric blinks. "I'm invited to the bachelor party?"

"Brother please," Chuck scoffs. Of course Eric is invited! He is going to be a Bass in everything but name, and maybe even that might be changed if his father decided to adopt Lily's kids. "Then head west to Monte Carlo for some all-night cards at Metropole," Chuck resumes. "Then swing by Giza just to watch the sun come up over the pyramids. What do you think Father?"

Bart finally looks up from the business section. "I think we're here."

"Uh… See you at home Bart," Eric mutters as he climbs out of the limo.

Chuck starts to follow, but Bart stops him. "Chuck will catch up in a minute," the elder Bass tells Eric. He waits until the blonde closes the door before turning to face his son. "You almost ruined things between me and Lily once before. I'm not going to let that happen again."

"What are you talking about?"

Bart's expression hardens. "I'm talking about that vulgar stunt you pulled at dinner."

"I didn't send Serena that package," Chuck scowls. "And quite frankly, her violated Virgin Mary act is getting pretty old."

"I thought making you my best man would help," his father admits.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Chuck asks, his stomach clenching. Had Bart not really wanted him as his best man? Had it just been a ploy of some kind?

"Inspire you to value my happiness above your own childish agenda," Bart growls.

Chuck looks down from his father's condemning gaze. What is the point denying it? Bart obviously doesn't think his son is capable of being blameless, so why bother? He wouldn't believe the truth anyway.

"Things seem to be working out for you at that club Victrola," Bart continues. "I'm thinking you might like me to invest more in the place, so you can have more control." He raises one brow. "In exchange for good behavior, of course."

"You're bribing me," Chuck states. It isn't a question.

"So we have a deal then," his father declares. Also not a question.

Without answering, Chuck gets out of the limo.

Judgmental asshole.

Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty? Oh wait. That's right. That applies to _other_ people. People who are not Chuck Bass! He isn't even worthy of the benefit of the doubt! He is automatically convicted of every little damn thing he is accused of!

He is scrawling in his notebook all the things he wishes he could say to his father but does not have the guts to utter when Serena arrives at school. She barely makes it to the steps before a delivery guy stops her as she tries to drift around his hand truck stacked high with wooden crates. Chuck watches curiously until she turns to give him a death glare across the courtyard, throwing her hands up in vexation as she stalks past.

What the hell was that about?

Then suddenly the other students are opening the cases she had left behind, pulling out bottle after bottle of champagne, popping the corks, sending cascades of sparkling bubbly spurting into the air.

Holy shit.

Serena's mystery admirer must have sent her another inappropriate token of his affection. So of course, _of course_ she is blaming Chuck! How typical.

Fucking bitch.

When school lets out, Chuck goes over to a classmate's house for a wii tennis tournament, inviting Eric to tag along. The younger boy does for a while, but has to leave for an appointment so Chuck decides to leave then too. He heads home and scarcely makes it to his room to change out of his uniform before his father is barging in.

"Charles," Bart begins, and Chuck can already tell he is in deep shit because that is usually the only time his father calls him by his _actual_ name and not his nickname. "I had hoped our discussion this morning would have dissuaded you from another of these inane pranks but I see now that more decisive measures need to be taken for you to realize how serious I consider your actions."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I cannot have you jeopardizing my relationship with Lily," his father explains. "And harassing her children definitely qualifies as jeopardizing."

"Harassing?" Chuck snorts incredulous. "What? I haven't done – "

"Save it Chuck," Bart snarls. "Serena already told me all about the champagne incident at school today. I am quite disappointed in your behavior and it is just lucky she didn't get expelled because of this petty trick coming so soon after her own swimming pool fiasco, but thankfully Lily was able to calm the headmistress down."

"But I – "

"Will be moving back into your old suite," Bart announces abruptly, cutting him off. "Effective immediately."

With that, his father walks from the room, ending all further protests.

For a long moment, Chuck just stands there in astonishment. His father, his own father had kicked him out! Had chosen Lily's children over him! Had basically said they were more important than his own flesh and blood!

What the fuck!

Livid, Chuck flings clothes into his suitcases, not caring what he takes as he can get out of this room as soon as possible. He never wants to set foot in it again. He'd never liked it in the first place, had never felt comfortable enough to relax in it, and now it certainly is never going to feel like home. It's going to always be the location where his father had chosen to side with strangers over his son.

Leaving various items scattered across the carpet, Chuck phones Arthur to bring around the limo and drags his bags towards the stairwell. As he reaches the top, Serena confronts him.

"What the hell is your problem?" she snaps.

"Specify the context," he grinds out.

She shoves something into his chest then, and he barely manages to catch it before it drops to the floor. Glancing at the item cradled in his palm, he squints in confusion. It's a baggie of cocaine.

"You disgust me Chuck!" she spits. "How dare you involve Eric in something like this! No wonder you're friendless, and girlfriendless. Even your own _father_ expects the worst from you!"

His jaw tightens at the truth so evident in that statement. "Well you saw to that."

"Listen," she orders. "If we're going to exist under the same roof, I am laying down some house rules."

"No need princess," he scowls. "Bart already kicked me out."

"What?"

"I'm moving back to my suite. Bart thought it best if the _family_ bonded without me for a while," he sneers before stomping down the steps and into the waiting limo.

Once he's back in his old suite, he tosses his luggage into the closet and pours himself a drink, downs it in one long swallow, and refills the highball. Next he sits on the sofa and powers up the television.

Hours later, and he's still there, nursing his fifth or sixth scotch while the television plays softly. Some news channel. But he isn't paying attention to it. He just needs the noise. It was amazing how quickly he'd gotten used to other people being around and now that they aren't the silence in his suite is deafening.

Someone knocks at his door, so he sets down his drink and flicks off the TV. Warily, he looks through the peephole, hoping it isn't his father planning to berate him for being a pathetic excuse for a son some more. Just in case he hadn't gotten the message loud and clear last time.

But no. It's Serena. Not that she is that much better this evening. Or any evening for that matter.

With an annoyed breath, he opens the door.

"Hey. I'm really sorry Chuck," she starts.

Great. She's come to _apologize_. Too little, and far too late.

"I know it wasn't you that sent me that stuff," she winces, handing him a card. Bored, he glances down at it.

_S –_

_Hope you like your presents!_

_Coming back to town._

_G_

Instantly, Chuck's eyes fly to Serena's face, a twinge of unease unfurling in the pit of his stomach. Already his pulse is beginning to race. "Why don't I make you a drink?"

He mixes her a gin and tonic, and she takes it from his shaking grip without commenting on the apparent tremble. "Oh God," she mutters between gulps. "Georgie can't be coming back. She _can't_."

"You two used to spend a lot of time together," Chuck nods absently, cold sweat breaking out along his skin as he imagines her cruel phantom laughter. "Drinking, dancing, conning men into buying your dinner. It seemed like you mostly enjoyed her company."

"Yeah, well I did. Georgie was… fun."

Chuck flinches at the word, remembering exactly Georgina's ideas of _fun_.

Serena doesn't notice his growing dread. "But she doesn't have a limit, Chuck!" she exclaims. "She doesn't stop, and everything gets out of control and there is no refusing her. She has a way of making it so you _can't_ say no and she… She gets you to do things you don't want to do, things you never thought you'd do, and it… it…"

"It stops being fun?"

"Yes," she whispers, meeting his eyes grateful for the understanding she sees mirrored there. "That's it exactly, and if she comes back, she'll ruin everything I've worked so hard for. I'm not that girl who parties until dawn anymore! But you know her. She won't accept that I've changed, she'll insist I'm still the same inside, that I can't go back after what I've done, and I… I'm afraid that if I'm around her, she'll end up being right."

With the clarity that only horrors can bring, he recalls Georgina saying almost the exact same words to him_. "__But do you really think you can go back?"_ she had insinuated years before. _"Just stop and forget about everything you've done to get here? You didn't infiltrate this world, Chucky. You became part of it. You're one of us now. Congratulations!"_

He shudders, feeling adrenaline surging through his veins filling him with terror. But now is not the time to panic. Panicking only leads to rash decisions and poor judgments. Georgina _thrives_ on inducing panic. So breathe, Bass, breathe. Think. What would _she_ do in this situation?

Why find out if it was true of course! It could just be a ruse, a ploy to freak out Serena. It isn't like the evil bitch has never sent vindictive items disguised as gifts before. He still remembers receiving flowers, a button, and a card from the whore, followed shortly afterwards by a call to see how much damage she'd wrought with the merest memory of her brutality. Perhaps this is like that.

So first things first: figure out where she is now. If she's close, well then they might have a serious problem. She might actually intend to visit. And if she is not, if she's on the other side of the planet, this could just be some of Georgina's famous mind fuckery.

He moves past Serena at the wet bar to open a drawer and pull out a piece of Palace Hotel stationary. With an unsteady hand, he begins hastily scribbling names.

"Here," he says after a bit, shoving the paper at Serena.

"What is this?"

"All the aliases I know she's used. Have I missed any?"

Her blue eyes scan the list, reading a few out loud. "Monique, Christina, Svetlana… How do you know all these?"

He crosses his arms across his chest. "I make it my business to know."

"Well you missed one," she shrugs, taking the proffered pencil and adding it at the bottom. "Angel. Sometimes when partied, I went by Tiffany and she went by Angel."

"How ironically inappropriate," Chuck grimaces, whipping out his phone and pressing #3 on his speed dial. "Hey," he commands in clipped tones when the other line picks up. "I need you to find the location of Georgina Sparks again. Pull her file, and I'll be faxing you an updated list of aliases in a minute. It is _urgent_ that you track her down." When he hangs up, he discovers Serena peering at him strangely. "What?" he barks.

"God, Chuck you're more freaked out at the prospect of her returning than I am!" she accuses. "Why is that?"

"It's nothing," he lies, attempting to brush her off. "Doesn't matter. Don't worry about it."

Serena stares at him until he shifts uncomfortably under the weight of her obvious curiosity. "But you've hardly seen her since… since you two..." She stops, pursing her lips in thought. "It didn't happen like she said, did it?" she finally blurts out.

Chuck hurries to pour himself another scotch, not liking the direction this conversation has taken. "What are you talking about?" he mumbles, stalling for time.

Please God. This cannot be happening. Not now. Not ever.

"When you slept with Georgina," Serena presses. "You didn't force yourself on – "

"No," he snarls, his blood turning to ice.

Oh sweet Jesus! He needs to get her out of here right now before she –

"Did… did she – "

Oh fuck!

He cuts her off quickly. "It's been nice catching up, Sis. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Chuck – "

"Let it go, Serena," he begs suddenly, hating the way he cannot quite look her in the eye. He knows if he does, she'll see the answers to her questions there and he isn't ready to have to deal with the inevitable pity that will follow such a discovery. "Just forget about it. _Please_."

"If that's what you want – "

"It is! Believe me it is."

As if she loathes leaving him, Serena slowly walks to the exit and lets herself out. Only once the lock clicks back into place does Chuck slump against the wall.

A girl, a scotch, and a smoke. That's exactly what he needs to forget this nightmare of an evening. A petite girl with brown hair and brown eyes who reminds him of Blair. Someone he can pretend _is_ Blair if he's drunk enough, which he will be before the babe gets here, and after fucking her senseless he'll get incredibly high, so high that he won't care that the body nestled beside him is not Blair and will never be again.

Sounds heavenly.

Taking swigs of scotch straight from the bottle, he dials his preferred escort service and within forty minutes, a prostitute arrives. In a rush, he leads her inside and tumbles her onto the bed. She nuzzles his neck, teeth scraping his skin in a sinful torment, but he cannot fully appreciate it because _she_ is not _her _no matter how drunk he is. Plus his cell keeps vibrating in his trouser pocket. Annoyed at the distraction, he pulls it out with one hand, fisting the other in her hair to draw her up for a kiss. His tongue wars with hers before he glances at the caller ID screen. The name causes him to stiffen, and abruptly he is shoving the brunette away, flicking his phone open hastily.

"Blair?" he whispers, thinking this has got to be some trick. "Is that you?"

"Hello lover," she drawls before breaking into a giggle that is so decidedly un-Blair.

"Are you… Are you drunk dialing?" he asks dubious, struggling to hear her over the throbbing music coming over the line. Her only response is to laugh hysterically. "Where are you?"

"You know what, Bass?" she says, ignoring his question. "You and Serena were right all along. This is more fun!"

"Blair! Blair, please where are you?" he demands, climbing off the mattress, searching for his shoes.

"Do you remember the first time you saw the real me?" she breathes, her voice a seductive caress he has to strain to catch. "That Blair that danced for you that night at Victrola? The Blair with none of the hang-ups, none of the frustrations? That's the Blair right here, and I like her, and she… she likes Toby."

"Toby?" he chokes.

"Yes Toby," she purrs and then Chuck's fingers clasp around the cell so hard his knuckles turn white as the unmistakable sound of kissing comes over the line. "Bad Toby!" she squeals when the kiss ends. "He thinks I should grace him with a dance, but I don't know if I – "

"Where the fuck are you Waldorf!" he shouts, but the line goes dead in his hands. "Goddamn it!"

Pushing the brunette whore out of his suite, he dials the one place he knows where Blair would be able to perform another striptease.

On the third ring, the manager of Victrola answers. "Hello Mister Ba – "

"Walter, I need you to find Blair Waldorf," Chuck growls as he jogs into the elevator and pushes the button for the ground floor impatiently. "I think she's in the club. 5'4". Brown hair. Brown eyes. Probably wearing a headband. Very intoxicated. If you want to keep your job, do not let her leave!"

Flicking the phone shut and then open again, Chuck hits the speed dial for his chauffer as he races across the marble lobby and onto the sidewalk in front of the hotel.

"Arthur. Limo. Now," he orders.

"Right away sir. It'll just take me a moment to – "

"Piss!" Chuck yells, sticking out his free hand to hail a passing taxi. "Just meet me at Victrola."

Fifteen minutes later, Chuck is climbing out of a cab in front of his club. He breezes past the velvet rope, and straight inside where an anxious Walter waits.

"Where is she?"

"At your table Mister Bass," Walter cringes. "She insisted on sitting there when she first came in."

"I just bet she did."

Stalking towards the stage, Chuck spots her familiar curls and feels the vice that had clenched around his heart with her phone call ease. Then an unknown guy leans in, kissing her like he owns her, and all Chuck can see is red.

Oh hell no! She is not getting hot and heavy with another man in _his_ goddamned private booth!

"Shoo! She's taken," Chuck hisses, pushing this strange male away as he grabs Blair's wrist to hoist her to her feet. Of their own accord, his arms curl around her possessively.

"Chuck!" she beams blearily, swaying against his chest, gesturing broadly to the guy who'd been all over her a moment before. "This is Toby."

"Tony," the jock corrects her, standing and visibly sizing up his competition.

"He just bought me another drink," she slurs as she lifts a concoction to her ruby lips, sloshing some of the neon blue liquid over the rim.

"Wasn't that thoughtful of _Toby_," Chuck sneers, shooting a scathing look at the asshole. "Because you obviously haven't had enough."

"Dude, leave her alone," the guy threatens, like he is the epitome of chivalry. "She's been pretty clear about wanting me tonight, so why don't you back off before you get hurt? She doesn't want you."

"That so?" Chuck arches one brow in challenge at the wannabe Don Juan. Then he pulls Blair swiftly against him, kissing her with all the pent up frustration of the past three months. Her lips open under his almost without any coaching and it is _her_ tongue which invades his mouth. The fingers of one of her hands twist in his hair, and she wraps her other arm around his shoulders, pressing him closer, grinding into his pelvis in such a way that his groin instantly hardens against her. When he eventually raises his head, Blair is left clinging to him, nearly breathless, making soft mewling sounds of desire. "Was that clear enough for you?" Chuck smirks at the jock. "Or would you like another demonstration of how much she does in fact want me and not you?"

The muscle head glares. "Fucking cunt."

"Excuse me?" Chuck says, moving Blair to the side. "What did you say?"

"I said she's a fucking cunt!" the guy snarls.

"That's what I thought you said," Chuck nods solemnly, thoughts of other faces flashing through his brain. First Serena, followed by Bart, Georgina, Blair, Nate, and lastly this cocksucker, and before he even realizes what he's doing, his fist collides with the arrogant prick's nose.

For a second it is as if time elongates. Chuck is aware of pain exploding along the knuckles of his right hand. It hurts much more than he had anticipated something like this would. The movies always make it seem like it is nothing. But this? This is _something_. It feels like he broke a fucking bone!

And Blair is staring at him, her chocolate eyes huge with shock and… pride? No. No, surely not. A trick of the light perhaps. But she _is_ making a move towards him, screaming his name, telling him to watch out for –

Then he's being tackled roughly to the ground so hard the air is forced from his lungs as blows slam into his kidneys.

It's all over before Chuck can even begin process what is going on, let alone defend himself as his highly paid bouncers rapidly pull the punch happy douche bag off their boss and kick him out into the street.

Wincing, Chuck drags Blair out of the club as well and into the recently arrived limo.

"You should have Arthur take you to the hospital," Blair says once the door shuts behind them

"I'm fine Waldorf," Chuck spits.

"Well you should have a doctor look at you just to be safe," she fusses, trying to see how much damage the other guy had inflicted.

"No," he growls, sliding away from her on the leather seats. "I'm a minor and they'll have to contact Bart and believe me, that is the _last_ thing I need right now. I've had a bad enough night as it is."

"Oh, so it's all my fault you had a bad day?" she bristles.

"Did I say that?"

"You – "

Teeth clamping together so hard his jaw aches, he turns to stare at her with barely restrained fury. "Did I specifically say it was all your fault?"

"Well…no, but – "

"But nothing!" he roars. "I did not say it was all your fault, but you immediately took it there. You always assume the absolute worst from me."

Her mouth drops in outrage. "Well it isn't like you haven't given me sufficient cause!" she shrieks.

"Right, of course I have. I'm _Chuck_ _Bass_," he shouts. "Always up to something nefarious. Giving you that necklace at your birthday party was just to get you to part those pretty thighs! Being concerned that you might be pregnant with _Nate's_ baby was just covering my own ass! Dashing down here because you were drunk and I was fucking _scared_ something could happen to you was just me… I don't even know, but I'm sure you'll come up with some ulterior motive! You always have to make everything I do part of some larger scheme instead of just accepting that maybe, just maybe I actually give a shit about you!"

"I – "

"And what's more? I shouldn't even be surprised!" he retorts before she can even begin to form a comeback. "You _always_ do this. You have to make everything all about you, except of course when it happens to involve me!"

"I do not!" she cries.

"Yes you do, and you don't even realize how unbelievably _selfish_ and fucking _blind_ you are!" he declares. "Not everything in this world revolves around Blair Waldorf, but when it does, when it absolutely does princess, you refuse to see it!"

"How dare you – " she snaps.

"No! No! How. Dare. You," he grinds out. "You think I want to feel like this? That I appreciate being deemed an asshole and a monster just because I'm not your darling can-do-no-wrong Nathaniel? That it didn't fucking _hurt_ being your dirty little secret because you were too ashamed to let anyone know you were with me?"

"Chuck I – " she starts to reach for him.

"No, no fuck you Waldorf!" he sneers, slapping her hands away. "You want to know why I'm having a bad day? Bart kicked me out. He chose Lily, and Serena, and Eric over me, his own son. So I had to move back to my suite, and that was followed by yet another crisis with Serena and almost as soon as she left, I got a drunken call from you and had to rush to Victrola to rescue you from Mr. Douche Bag Date Rapist and ended up getting my ass kicked for the trouble. And then you have the audacity to go all sanctimonious martyr on me and accuse me of things and play these Goddamned games yet again, so forgive me if I think I've got a fucking _reason_ to be upset this evening!"

Stunned by his outburst, she stares at his in total silence until with a curse, he buries his face into his hands.

This day just keeps getting worse and worse.

Inhaling deeply, trying to regain his composure, he detects the faint sound of her scooting closer to him across the leather upholstery.

Tentatively, she places her palm against his back. "Chuck, I'm sor – "

He recoils from her attempt at comfort. "Don't touch me," he grimaces. "I don't want your hands anywhere on me ever again."

Despite his protests, she presses her fingers more firmly into the wool of his sweater, massaging. "I don't believe you," she whispers. "Not now. Not after you kissed me like that at the club."

"Yeah, well that didn't mean anything," he swallows, feeling some of the tension in his shoulders fade away as she rubs his taut muscles. "I was just trying to get that fucking bastard to leave you alone."

Snuggling into his side, she pushes him upright so that he's looking at her. "So what would happen if I kissed you right now?" she dares. "Would you pull away?"

Not wanting to play this game, Chuck turns his face away. "Blair…"

"Would you?" she repeats.

"Probably," he snaps in irritation, glaring at her.

She narrows her eyes in amusement. "And if I did this?" she taunts, sliding into his lap, straddling him. "Would you stop me?"

His breath catches in his throat as his traitorous hands creep under the hem of her dress, skimming her legs, stroking along the silk of her stockings, inching ever upwards until abruptly his palms meet bare flesh.

Oh sweet Jesus. She's wearing garters!

Hardening in response, he manages to whisper, "Possibly not."

She smirks, feeling his growing arousal. "And this?" she mocks seductively before she lowers her mouth to his neck, nipping lightly at the tender flesh there until his hips arch up into her with a muffled groan.

"…no."

"Why?" she inquires, tracing the ridge of his ear with her tongue. "I seem to recall you saying you didn't want me anymore." She lifts her head and meets his intense gaze, smoldering with desire, electricity crackling between them.

Fuck it.

"I… I may have been exaggerating slightly," he admits as he reaches up to bury his fingers in her chestnut curls so he can claim her lips with his.

Before he can however, she tilts her neck away. "Don't touch my hair."

"What?" he blinks, annoyed at the interruption now that he's given in. "You never objected before."

"Yes, well only my boyfriend gets to touch my hair," she explains, leaning down to kiss him.

Chuck turns his head away, denying her. "But I…" his voice fades for a second, deliberating. "I used to touch your hair all the time."

She draws back slightly. "I guess you did."

"So what does that mean exactly?" Chuck says, his tone a gentle command. "That we were…? That _I_ was...?"

She clears her throat, glancing away. "I… I don't know."

His mouth twists in derision. "Real convenient for you not to know."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she exclaims.

"You know, maybe I thought you were ready to tell me how you really felt, but obviously it was just another one of your games," he jeers. "You don't really want this Blair. You never did."

"Yes, I do."

"No. You just _think_ you do because you're drunk, but if we did this, you'd hate me in the morning. It'd just be another thing you'd blame me for, and sorry but I'm done being your whipping boy."

"Fine!"

She shoves away from him, falling onto the floor of the limo, crawling to the mini-bar. Within seconds she returns, shoving one of the tiny bottles of tequila to his lips. ""Here. Drink this. Then we can be together and I can't blame you. Nobody's at fault since we'll both be drunk."

"Blair, I don't think – "

"Just shut up and drink it Bass!" she cries, upending one of the tiny bottles against his lips, forcing him to gulp or let the alcohol spill everywhere.

"I don't need these to want you Blair. I always want you," he confesses as she reaches for another bottle.

"I… I know… I just…" she sobs suddenly. "Please, for me. Do it for me." She presses another one to his mouth. "_I_ need this."

And he understands finally that she does. That falling for Chuck Bass was not on her agenda but had happened anyway. That she isn't ready to admit it to him, let alone herself, although it is undeniably true. The alcohol is just an excuse to give in to what she feels without having to face the stark reality of it. That's why she'd called him in the first place, knowing he'd come to her rescue.

"I'd do anything for you, princess," he whispers, cradling her cheek. "But not this. I can't do this."

"But this is what you want!" she wails.

He smiles sadly. "No. You _know_ what I want, and I'm not going to settle for less. I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry too," she whimpers, tears beginning to fall down unchecked down her face as Chuck draws her into the circle of his arms. "What happened? When did everything get so screwed up? This isn't how it's supposed to be. I don't know who I am anymore, what I'm supposed to do. I feel so…"

"Lost," he finishes, feeling the exact same way.

"Yeah," she murmurs against the safety of his chest.

"Well I don't know what to tell you Waldorf," he admits. "I didn't count on this either, and I'm just as confused and afraid as you are. Maybe more so, but we'll figure it out."

"Oh yeah?"

"Definitely," he promises, fingering her tousled waves to see if she'll complain. When she doesn't, he drops a kiss into the disheveled curls with a grin.

She probably won't remember any of this in the morning. But he will, and what was it she had said before? That only her boyfriend gets to touch her hair?

He likes the sound of that.


	34. Chapter 34

_Well I remember, I remember don't worry_

_How could I ever forget?_

_It's the first time, the last time we ever met_

_But I know the reason why you keep your silence up_

_No you don't fool me_

_The hurt doesn't show, but the pain still grows_

_It's no stranger to you or me_

_And I can feel it coming in the air tonight, oh Lord_

-Phil Collins-

The snapshot is in black and white rather than color, and the quality is quite grainy, but still the person in the image is undoubtedly her, and the time stamp is from late last evening. Thank God. The evil whore is in Alvaneu, Switzerland, and she's gallivanting around under an assumed identity with a fucking _prince_ whom she is presumably fucking. Will wonders never cease?

He shuffles to the next photograph. This one is a close up of the two lovebirds kissing, or more precisely, Georgina holding her face rigid while this elderly slob gropes her in public. Studying it, Chuck isn't sure whether to laugh or gag. Probably the latter, he suspects.

Georgina had always been one to do whatever was necessary to assure her own survival, but this is _low_ even for her. Sleeping with an older gentleman? Fine. Sleeping with this _particular_ older gentleman? Gross. Prince or no prince, he is repulsive and way below her standards except in regards to money. She must really be hurting financially to have sunk to this level of desperation to maintain her lifestyle.

Then again, from the looks of it, it seems her _habits_ have only increased. She'd always been rather slender because of her penchant for cocaine, but the bitch is damn near skeletal now. Looks like her enforced stint in rehab didn't help her kick her addiction. Not surprising seeing as she appears to have skipped out on the treatments within two months of her arrival. But after being denied her fix for that long, her frequency of use had surely grown once she was liberated, and since her parents had cut off her allowance she couldn't afford to get high on her own. Supporting her party girl ways was unquestionably her reason behind shacking up with the decrepit middle-aged fool. Of course, he'd also be easier to manipulate than a strapping young lad loaded with cash, so perhaps it isn't that unexpected a move after all. Georgina is nothing if not strategic.

As is Chuck Bass if he thinks about it.

This is why he's arranged to have a wad of hundred dollar bills in his pocket this morning along with an ID that reads "Charles Bass," although the boy in the picture is decidedly _not_ him. The forgery is good, will withstand scrutiny, and thus free him from having to take this blasted exam known as the SAT himself.

The SAT is just a formality anyway. It really doesn't matter what his score is so long as he has one. As if any college is seriously going to risk rejecting an application from the son of one of the wealthiest men in the country? In this instance, he's like one of those Hollywood celebrities who attend Ivy Leagues. He'll bring prestige to the campus, and the university can then brag that so-and-so got their degree from Yale or Harvard or wherever. It makes the school look good, and having an alumni who's going to inherit a fortune doesn't hurt.

Frankly, the majority of the kids in the Upper East Side don't have to worry about the SATs, and yet they will. They'll fret over it and cram for hours on end, preferring to delude themselves into believing that their test score or their essay or their grade in AP Calculus matters when the truth is it's their last name and only their last name that the admissions office gives a shit about.

Some of the students at Saint Jude's and Constance will, of course, need excellent scores, but not most of them. Certainly not Chuck, being the sole heir of Bass Industries, nor Serena with her mother's upcoming marriage adding her under the umbrella of the Bass family. Not Nathaniel with his grandfather having half the Senate in his back pocket. Not Blair with her mother's clothing designs beginning to become red carpet regulars. But still, they will all strive for the perfect score anyway just so that they can try to convince themselves that they got in on their own merits and not thanks to the hands of fate that had them born into power and privilege rather than poverty.

All of them, that is, except Chuck. He knows better than to stress over the results of an exam that does not figure at all into his college acceptance. The score is just a hoop one has to jump through. He could easily take the test himself, but why bother if it doesn't count? He would rather spend his time on other more leisurely pursuits instead. Besides, the score can be acquired easily enough with the right connections and a little cash, and as he's going to pay someone else to take it for him anyway, he may as well make sure that person is the male equivalent of Nelly Yuki so he gets his money's worth.

One 90th percentile score coming right up.

After exiting his limo and the surreptitious SAT transaction, Chuck heads to the courtyard. Serena will most likely be there, and she will definitely want to hear the good news about the status of their cruel mentor. As he steps out of the building however, his feet halt at who he spots seated next to the blonde.

It's Blair. Blair with her immaculate curls and a teasing expression. Blair in a bright yellow jacket and an orange headband that matches his own coat exactly. Blair who hasn't said two words to him after he had refused to sleep with her after rescuing her from Victrola last week and has been doing her damndest to ignore him ever since.

Seeing her, his heart flutters. Maybe today will be the day that she –

But no. Some bimbo hanging out in the doorway misinterprets his pausing there, thinking he had done it because of _her_. The slut touches his chest in an overly-familiar gesture, her smile an even more obvious indication that they have fucked at one time or another and she'd _love_ a second round. Blair's vigilant gaze zeroes in on them before Chuck can shrug the desperate girl off.

Shit.

Her face instantly closes down. She turns towards Serena, rapidly shoving things into her bag. Understanding that she is attempting to avoid talking to him again, Chuck begins moving forward. But Blair is already rising, gliding past him almost as if he were not even there. Then at the last possible second, her eyes harden into a frosty glare.

Well that's an improvement. At least she deigned to acknowledge him this time.

"She really needs to tone down on the social niceties," Chuck observes wryly as he takes the seat next to Serena that Blair had just vacated. "It's embarrassing."

The blonde shakes her head. "Eventually the two of you are gonna have to work out your issues."

"What issues?" he taunts. "I'm issue free."

And he is. Where Blair is concerned, he finally is. He'd said all he needed to say to her that night in the limo and she'd said enough back to give him hope that she felt the same. She'd been sloppy drunk, of course, but if her behavior the last few days is any indication, she remembers what he said. He had assumed she wouldn't, but she obviously _does_. Why else would she be trying so valiantly to act like he doesn't exist? It's the simplest way to pretend the entire conversation had never happened, and it is what she always does when her life doesn't go according to the movie she's envisioned in her head. She's editing out the parts that aren't following the script.

But it's a bit too late to erase everything that happened between them in the limo after the rescue. She's tipped her hand and Chuck knows she cares just as much as he does. They are inevitable and he isn't going to give up ever again. Now he just has to be patient and persistent and wear her down until she admits it too. And if that confession has to be earned one scathing look at a time, so be it!

For now, however, he has other business to attend to. Information that Serena is almost as anxious to know as he had been.

"And uh… based on my _exhaustive_ research," he announces, "So are you."

The golden waif perks up at that, tearing her eyes away from the SAT prep program she'd been fiddling with. "Georgina?" she asks eagerly.

"According to my very reliable sources, Georgina Sparks is nowhere near our fair isle," Chuck confirms. "She's in Switzerland dating the Prince of Belfort."

Serena squints for a moment, as if not trusting she'd heard him correctly. "There's a Prince of Belfort?" she repeats. "And she's dating him?" Chuck nods slightly, and suddenly she is bursting into a grin. "Oh thank God!"

He smirks at her obvious relief. "Now you can enjoy the gifts she mailed you with peace of mind," he leers, leaning into her suggestively. "And maybe Chuck in the room."

"Oh shoot, except we're siblings," she groans in disgust, shoving his face away with an open palm.

"Georgie always brought out the devil in you. There's a part of me that's a little disappointed she's not here," he admits.

"Hmm… I wonder which part?" she muses sardonically.

"It's been a while since I saw the old Serena," he clarifies quickly. He does not want Georgina to visit under any circumstances, but lately he does miss his Serena being his party pal. They used to associate frequently when the psychotic bitch still resided in Manhattan, naturally gravitating towards one another in the chaos-filled dens of drinks and drugs and depravity. They hadn't been _friends_, and they were never _close_, but they had been there for one another in a way no one else ever was. They constantly watched out for each other, prevented the other from doing anything especially stupid, took care of the other when things got out of hand.

How often had he held Serena's hair back when she vomited from drinking too much? How many times had she phoned Arthur to pick up his charge when Chuck over imbibed and was in danger of passing out at some stranger's house? How many evenings had they fled together when Georgina's wild ways got out of control and the festivities stopped being fun?

The insidious wild nights of the Upper East Side had done the impossible, had bonded them together after the sadistic slut's lies had destroyed their childhood camaraderie. It had allowed them to reach a level of understanding that had no words.

Then Serena had fled to boarding school, and when she returned, she was reformed and wanted nothing to do with Chuck once again. He was a reminder of her old life, the one she was attempting to forget, and so she moved on without him. At the time, he hadn't minded much. He had other people to hang out with. In Serena's absence he'd grown close to Blair, and of course he'd still been best friends with Nate.

But now things were different. Nathaniel was no longer talking to him, and Blair acted like she despised him one moment and begged to sleep with him the next. The cornerstones of his social identity were basically gone, and he needed one of them to return so he didn't feel so fucking lost. The old Serena, the carefree Serena, the 'I can drink you under the table' Serena would fit the bill.

"Well thanks to her," the blonde continues, "The new one has to break a 2000 of her SATs so if you could just go smarm elsewhere."

"The offer still stands," he reminds her as he rises from the table. "I know a, uh lovely little redhead that's just dying to be you for the day."

She smiles. "I'll leave the cheating to you Chuck. I plan on taking the SATs myself."

He walks away, the edge of his lips twitching in irony. He'd already explained to her the other day the pointlessness of taking the exam herself, but she still seems intent on doing so despite him making arrangements so she wouldn't have to bother with it.

Typical.

Glancing at his watch, he sees that he still has some time before first period begins. Maybe now would be an ideal opportunity to begin phase one of wear down the Waldorf. He had already gotten one glare today. Might as well try for two.

Strolling inside and up the stairs to the Constance hallway, Chuck locates Blair's locker and leans against it. She always grabs whatever book she needs for her first class before the morning bell, and today she is going to have to deal with him in order to get it.

Sure enough, five minutes later the chestnut haired beauty rounds the corner. Sometimes he loves that she is so predictable.

With an air of extreme annoyance, she approaches, stopping only once she is directly in front of him. Standing there fuming, she stares coldly at him while he arches a brow back at her, daring her to say something.

After several tense seconds, she rolls her eyes. "Bass, I don't have time for this. Get off."

He manages to keep his expression neutral. "Are you volunteering again?" he inquires with practiced nonchalance.

She blinks in confusion. "To do what?"

"To get me off," he winks. Really she walked right into that one.

"Hardly," she scowls. "Been there. Done that. Been decontaminated."

"Didn't seem that way last week," he can't resist pointing out.

She sighs, a loud exasperated noise. "I don't know what you're talking about," she lies.

"No?" he snorts. "I can remind you if you'd like. I'd _love_ to."

"That won't be nec – "

"Oh but it is," he asserts, cutting off her protest. He reaches out to touch the hem of her skirt. "I believe you crawled into my lap and pleaded for me to – "

"You're a pig!" she hisses, slapping his hand away.

"Flattery will get you nowhere Waldorf."

"Get off my _locker_ Basshole," she snaps.

"What's the magic word?" he goads, crossing his arms behind his head.

"Now!" She stabs a finger into his chest with such force that it fucking _hurts_. He'll probably have a bruise.

"What did I tell you about playing rough?" he winces, rubbing the soreness.

"I'll show you exactly how rough I can be if you don't get the hell off my locker!" she threatens with the slightest of snarls.

In response, Chuck's mouth twists in amusement. She looks so damn sexy when she's pissed. The flush anger brings to her cheeks, the fierceness that smolders in her chocolate eyes, the defiant set of her lips that just beg to be kissed into submission; it never fails to arouse him. "Is that a promise?" he taunts, his voice a seductive caress.

At his words, her breath catches in her throat. She swallows, her haughty demeanor slipping under the intensity of his magnetic gaze, silently challenging her to contradict what they both know to be true. "You nauseate me," she finally manages to whisper without being able to break eye contact.

"That's not nausea, princess," he explains softly, stepping closer. "That's butterflies."

"You wish," she insists, although her overall tone lacks conviction.

"So do you," he counters smugly.

"I do not!" she spits, her inner fire surfacing from beneath her frosty exterior. To punctuate her denial, she shakes her head so adamantly that some of her chestnut tresses swing free from the restraint of her orange headband.

Seeing it, he unexpectedly tucks the stray curl behind her ear, fingering the silken strand before meeting her eyes again. "Yes, you do," he states, dropping his hand from her hair before she can pull back.

Then he saunters away leaving her there, never glancing behind him to check to see if she is watching, more than confident that she _will_ be gaping after him until he disappears from view.

Later than evening he's changing out of the suit he'd worn right after school into something more comfortable when his cell rings. He peeks at the caller ID.

– SERENA –

"Talk to me, S," he says as he answers with a press of a button.

"I'm so stupid," she slurs dramatically. "So, so, so, _so_ stupid."

Cradling the phone between his cheek and his shoulder, he slides his watch back on. "You don't sound stupid," he notes absently. "You sound drunk. What _have_ you been into?"

"Georgina," Serena sighs.

Instantly, Chuck's lungs constrict. No, no, no. Not possible. She was in Europe! She couldn't be here. She couldn't! Oh God. Oh God. Breathe, Bass, _breathe_. Don't panic. Don't panic. Don't –

Fuck!!!

"Good news is she doesn't want anything except to party," the tipsy blonde rambles oblivious to his rising terror. "Bad news is I partied."

"Care to paint a picture?" he drawls, hiding his anxiety behind innuendo. "Did this party require clothes?"

Serena ignores his sleazy comment. "I'm supposed to be at Dan's studying," she whines. "I called to tell him I'd be late, but not this late. I… I just have to call him and say – "

"That instead of studying with him you're out with your old pal Georgina?" he finishes, proud that he was able to speak the whore's name without a tremor invading his voice.

"No, I don't want him to know she exists. My mom, Blair, even _you_ can't stand her! Dan of all people cannot know Georgie," she cries. "Can you help me?"

She should know that she doesn't need to ask, but since she has, he may as well use it to his advantage. "Say you need me," he teases.

"Chuck!" she wails in desperation.

"Hearing you scream my name is more than enough," he assures her with a grin. "I'll take care of it and pick you up in ten."

Without waiting for her reply, he hangs up and immediately scrolls through his mobile's phonebook until he reaches the entry listed as 'BROOKLYN BAGGAGE' and presses a key to call the number.

After just one ring, Dan picks up. "Hey! I've been wondering where you were," he greets, his happiness at talking to his girlfriend quite evident.

Chuck cannot help but feel wicked glee at the charity case's mistake. It means he gets to crush his excitement, and that makes _him_ excited. "You mean all of your life?" he mocks.

"Hey, uh don't take this the wrong way Serena but you sound just like this _jackass_ we know," Dan deadpans when he recognizes Chuck's voice.

At the insult, irritation flares within Chuck. Fucking low class loser! "Serena has food poisoning," he sneers. "She's too sick to come to your play date."

"Put her on the phone," Dan orders like he is in any position to boss Chuck Bass around.

"The bathroom doesn't get reception," he lies smoothly.

Dan scoffs, "Somehow I don't believe you."

"And I'd like to say I'm a little glad about that, but my poor sick sister has asked for my assistance in the matter," Chuck gloats. "So I'll leave it at this. She's not coming. Don't try calling." Then right before hanging up on the bastard, he adds, "Humphrey, always a pleasure."

Now he just has to fetch his sister before the she gets into a worse mess.

A short limo ride later and Serena is climbing onto the leather seats. As the door shuts behind her, Chuck narrows his eyes at her in disapproval. She always was a sloppy drunk. "You've got some explaining to do."

"Chuck, I'm not in the mood," she complains. "I'm tired. I just want to go home."

"Yeah, well I want answers, and you're not going anywhere until I get them," he scowls. "So start talking."

She exhales wearily. "About what?"

"How about why the hell didn't you call me as soon as you discovered she was really here?" he suggests with venom.

For a long moment, she is quiet. "I don't know," she eventually confesses.

"You don't know?" he grinds out, struggling to contain his frustration. "Did it not _occur_ to you that I might want to know? That I might _need_ to know?"

"Sorry, okay?" she snaps, her blue eyes brimming with unshed tears. "She caught me by surprise and said she just wanted to get a cocktail and catch up. I didn't think it'd be a big deal."

Chuck clenches his jaw, biting back the scathing remark that springs to his mind. The last thing he needs is for her to start bawling. "Not a big deal?" he repeats with extreme patience. "This is Georgina Sparks. Everything is a big deal with her. You of all people should know that."

"I made an error in judgment, okay?" she whimpers. "It won't happen again."

"It better not," he growls. "You can't afford to make mistakes like this with her."

Sensing his barely controlled temper, the blonde draws her knees up to her chest as she lowers her chin, hiding behind the cloud of her disheveled golden mane. "I know that."

Seeing her curled into a fetal position, Chuck's anger starts to evaporate. He feels an urge to wrap his arms around her, to comfort her, to tell her he isn't mad, but he can't. It wouldn't help matters to coddle her. She fucked up, and in this instance she has to understand how _badly_ she fucked up. One cannot take risks where Georgina is concerned and though she appears to have gotten away relatively unscathed this time, the next time she might not be so lucky. "So what did _Whoregina_ really want?" he prompts instead, fisting his hands at his sides.

At the insulting nickname for their mutual mentor, Serena giggles. "Same thing the bitch always wants," she groans when her laughter subsides. "To party. To raise hell. To cause a scene. To have _fun_."

"That's just fucking _great_," Chuck snarls, raking his fingers through his hair, his shoulders tightening unconsciously.

"My sentiments exactly," Serena agrees. "But thankfully she isn't sticking around long. I think she said she was leaving in a couple days."

He nods in relief, although his taut muscles do not relax. "Good," he mutters, dying for a scotch. "But don't see her again regardless. It isn't safe."

"Believe me, I am _not_ planning on it," she says emphatically. "If I ever see her again, it will be too soon."

"So when you two were hanging out, I didn't come up in conversation, did I?" he asks in trepidation, his stomach knotting with dread.

"No, and I didn't bring you up either. You weren't mentioned at all," she reassures him.

"Thank God!"

"You're welcome, by the way."

"Thanks, _Sis_."

Serena glowers at his arrogant smirk. "So what did Dan say when you called? You _did_ call him, right?"

"I said I would, and I did," Chuck sighs. "I was even _polite_."

"Polite?" she exclaims. "Oh God. Now I'm worried."

"Don't be," he snorts as the limo pulls up in front of the building they both used to live in. "I told him you had food poisoning and couldn't come to the phone."

"Did he accept that?"

"Not really," he acknowledges. "You'll have to sell it tomorrow."

Opening the door and stepping onto the curb, she grimaces. "Okay. Food poisoning. I can do that. Thank you, Chuck. For everything."

He waves her off. "Not a problem. It's what we do. We're family after all."

"Yeah," she grins in faux aggravation. "I guess we are."

"Night Serena."

"Night Chuck."

The next morning on the drive to school, Chuck speed dials his private investigator. The fact that the hell spawn had made it to Manhattan without him being notified precisely as he was having her monitored is disturbing to say the least. They better have a decent excuse, or he might have to put a different PI on retainer.

He's still on the phone with the agency when he arrives at Saint Jude's and Dan approaches him in such a way that he obviously wants to talk.

_Fabulous_.

"Okay. Umm… yeah," Chuck mumbles into the cell as he holds up a finger to stall the Brooklynite from interrupting. "I'm gonna have to call you back." He hangs up, and without bothering to conceal his dislike turns towards his sister's boyfriend. "Beautiful day you're ruining, isn't it?"

Humphrey's forehead hardens in determination. "Do me a favor please and leave Serena alone."

The self righteousness of his tone annoys Chuck immensely. "It was _Serena_ I was doing the favor for," he sneers.

"All I know is before spring break, everything was great. It was good. Now breaks over, she's not quite herself. And I'm… I'm trying to think what is changed in her life," the loser explains condescendingly. Then he clicks his fingers as if he's had a goddamned epiphany. "Oh, the _Bass_ family moved into it!" he accuses.

Chuck clenches his jaw and is just about to insinuate exactly what _else_ the Bass family has moved into when Serena glides up to them. "Dan, hi," she smiles, planting a quick kiss on the judgmental prick.

"Hey," Dan replies, "How you feeling?"

"Good," the blonde shrugs. "My migraine's gone."

Shit.

Idiotic Serena! Stupid bitch can't ever keep her details straight. Furtively, Chuck shakes his head at her to signify she should shut up since she's blown the excuse they'd made up, but from her furrowed brow, the gesture only succeeds in confusing her.

Nevertheless, her boyfriend is _not_ confused. "Migraine?" Dan repeats, glancing skeptically at Chuck whose face has already transformed into a mask of bored indifference. "I thought it was food poisoning."

"That came after," she says lamely.

Doubtfully, Humphrey squints at her. "What exactly happened last night?"

Oh damn it all.

"I already told him," Chuck blurts out, attempting to remind Serena of the story they'd concocted the night before. She had gotten food poisoning. It wasn't that fucking hard a lie to remember!

Perhaps understanding what he is trying to do, Dan sticks out his palm, preventing Chuck from joining the conversation. "I'm asking _you_," he stresses to Serena.

"Well I got food poisoning," she swallows. "And then Chuck helped me out."

Finally! She can be taught! It's a miracle! Now everything should be in the clear…

But Dan is not about to let the issue go that easily. "Okay. Where exactly did you eat that you got this killer food poisoning migraine?" he inquires.

Serena fidgets under the questions in his eyes. "Can we stop the interrogation?"

"As soon as you tell me where my girlfriend is," the charity case demands.

"I'm right here with you," she coos, her voice half pleading.

Dan starts to speak, but the bell rings to warn that classes will be commencing shortly. "Look I… I gotta go to class," he stammers. "I can't… I can't do this."

Once he's left, Chuck strides to Serena's side again. "This is _exactly_ why I didn't want her to come back" S huffs. "She's been back a day already and look what's happening."

"If it's really that bad," Chuck points out, "Why don't you just tell him about her?"

Serena avoids his gaze. "I can't. I'll see you later, okay?"

Watching her hurry inside, Chuck is fairly positive that something more going on with Serena than he is currently aware of. He doesn't have long to dwell on the nagging suspicion however, and by lunchtime, he has forgotten about it.

But the next morning, a frantic call from the blonde brings the feeling rushing back.

"Chuck? Chuck hey. I'm in trouble," Serena nearly sobs over the line, her words tumbling out so fast that he isn't able to form a coherent reply. "Look I think I can still make it but please go to Hunter and try to keep the doors open until I get there."

"S?" he finally manages to say, only to discover she's hung up.

What the hell? This has to be related to that sadistic whore. It is just too much of a coincidence for it not to be connected to her somehow.

Checking the time on his watch, he sees that there is no way Serena is going to be taking the SATs today. She's got ten minutes to get there, and although he doesn't know precisely where she is, if she was close by at all, she wouldn't have needed him to try to delay them closing the doors.

Pacing in his suite, he dials a number. "Hello Sandra," he drawls when a female voice answers. "Are you perchance at Hunter College right now? Good. It appears my friend _will_ be needing your services today after all."

Once the call is finished, Chuck lounges on his sofa sipping a scotch, fervently praying that the amber liquid will take the edge off his bad mood. When a gentle rapping occurs on his door, though, he is still in a bad mood.

He opens his door, and there Serena stands looking like she's just returned from one hell of a wild party. Her extremely rumpled appearance settles all remaining doubt. The golden girl had definitely spent an evening with the sadistic slut.

"What the fuck Serena?" he shouts as soon as she's stepped inside. "I thought we agreed you weren't ever going to see Georgina again."

She flinches from his unexpected wrath. "I wasn't, but then she called and begged and you know how manipulative she can be!" she wails. "She said we'd just have one drink! It'd only take an hour!"

"And you _believed_ her? Of all the moronic…" He bites back the rest of his rant. It would not help matters at the moment, and he needs to try to remain calm as it is now quite evident that only one of them has any brains, and it is not her. "So what happened?"

"I… I don't know," she whispers.

Chuck's vision begins to develop a slight reddish tinge. "You don't know?" he scowls.

Guys do not hit girls. Guys do not hit girls. Guys do not hit girls.

"I don't," she gulps. "Honest. I ordered a Coke and then I got really tired all of a sudden and the next thing I knew, I was waking up in a strange room somewhere."

Instantly, all his anger at her fades. "Did you leave your drink?" he asks rapidly, grabbing her arms, searching her face, noting the ashen complexion, the glazed look in her eyes, the deep purple bags under them.

"What?" she blinks.

"At the bar," he clarifies. "Did you leave your drink unattended?"

"No," she denies. "Wait.. Maybe? I can't remember." She shakes her limp blonde hair helplessly. "Why?"

Oh sweet Jesus.

"She spiked your Coke and gave you a roofie," he sighs, dropping his hands from her shoulders.

"What?!?!" she stutters in shock. "You think she…? No! No, not even _Georgie_ would do something like that."

"She most certainly would," he states.

She snorts, still unconvinced. "How do you know?"

"I…" He clears his throat. "You'll just have to trust me on this."

She peers at him, her expression far too curious for his comfort at the moment. "Chuck, what is it you're not telling – "

Thankfully, her query is halted by another knock on Chuck's door. Dashing from her to look out the peephole, he thinks he has never been so glad to see Dan Humphrey. "It's Brooklyn, S."

"Dan's here?" she hisses.

He nods. "Yeah."

She slumps against the wall. "Oh God."

"You want me to send him away?"

"No. I'll talk to him." She indicates that he should go back to the living room, looks through the peephole herself as if hoping her boyfriend had somehow magically disappeared, and then wearily opens the door.

"Hey," Dan exhales in relief when he sees her. "Hey what's going on?"

She pulls away, unconsciously trying to escape. "Nothing. I'm fine."

"No you're not and you need to stop saying that," Dan asserts. "Hey, where were you?"

Not about to let his sister be badgered, Chuck comes around the corner. "She was with me."

"What he means is we were both at home," Serena soothes quickly, seeing Dan misinterpreting Chuck's statement. "My stomach started acting up again."

"Oh. A food poisoning relapse?" Humphrey scoffs. "Look if… if you didn't study enough and you freaked out I can – "

"I told you I was sick," she snaps, cutting him off.

"You _paid_ someone else to take the SAT for you and that's the best you can do?" Dan taunts.

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the five foot nothing redhead claiming to be Serena van der Woodsen," he observes sarcastically. "I'm… I'm pretty sure that wasn't you."

Serena turns towards her stepbrother. "Chuck, what did you do?" she glowers. "I told you to keep the doors open. When I got there they were closed."

Not wanting to be drawn into the lover's spat anymore than he already is, Chuck grimaces. "Yeah, they don't keep the doors open. I was thinking on my feet. Just trying to help."

Ignoring everything but Serena, Dan cradles her face. "I'm not mad," he promises. "I'm just worried. I've been so worried about you. Please help me understand what's going on here."

His heartfelt plea almost makes Chuck feel sorry for the guy. Almost.

"Can we talk tomorrow?" Serena asks, not meeting Dan's gaze. "I'll call you." Then, almost inaudibly she adds, "I'm sorry."

For a long moment, Dan doesn't move, just glances from Chuck to Serena several times. "I'm sorry too," he acknowledges.

Stepping forward, Chuck starts to usher Dan from his suite until the other boy indicates there is no need and leaves on his own. Once the door clicks shut, Serena lashes out. "Chuck you went too far."

"And so did you Sis," he counters. "Look, I feel… foolish admitting it, but obviously I've come late to this party."

"English please?"

He narrows his eyes at her. "What's Georgina got on you?" he states bluntly.

Her breath catches. "Chuck – "

"Dan I understand," he muses aloud. "But what's so bad you can't even tell me?"

She turns and flees back to the wet bar. "It's nothing."

Following close behind, he calls her bluff. "If it was nothing, you wouldn't be acting this way."

"Just drop it Chuck."

"Serena," he admonishes. "If you don't let me know what's going on I don't know how to help you."

She collapses onto a stool. "You can't help me with this."

"You don't know that."

"Okay, have it your way," she fumes. "You want to know? Fine! Tell me your secret first."

He feigns ignorance. "What secret?"

"Tell me what really happened between you and Georgina," she grinds out. "Tell me why you hate her so much."

"I don't see how that – "

"You tell me yours, I'll tell you mine."

Clever cunning bitch.

"That isn't fair," he reminds her. "I already asked you to drop that."

"And I'm asking you to drop this," she retorts.

Touché, Goddamn it, touché

Knowing she has outmaneuvered him, he still cannot risk pressing one more time. "Is your secret really that bad?"

"Is yours?" she counters.

Fuck, she must be taking pointers from Blair in verbal sparring. It's the only explanation.

"Okay then," he concedes. "Subject's closed. I won't ask any more." She smiles wanely, and slides off the chair to shuffle to the exit. "But seriously S," he calls after her. "Whatever it is, whatever you've done, whatever she has on you, remember that you've seen enough of her to know how to hurt her where it counts as well. Don't forget that, and don't let _her_ forget it either. Stand up for yourself. It's the only way to be free of her. Believe me. I know."

She tosses him a grateful look over her shoulder. "Thank you."

He closes the door behind her and pads towards his couch, but there upon the leather cushions, partially obscured by an oversized throw pillow, is Serena's purse. Grabbing it, he jogs back to the main hallway to see if she is still waiting for the elevator, but the blonde is already gone.

He whips out his phone and speed dials her, hoping she's hasn't left the building yet, but hangs up when he hears her cell ringing from inside the designer bag. Guess he'll have to return it to her tomorrow after all.

Barely five minutes later, however, there is an insistent knocking at his door. He should have known she would return for it. Girls always carry important crap in their purses. It's why the things weigh so damned much.

"Back so soon?" he leers expectantly as he opens the door, his mouth twisting into a lecherous grin. But the suggestive smile falters when he sees who is actually standing outside his suite.

"Hello Chucky."


	35. Chapter 35

_What is it really that is in your head?_

_What little life that you had just died?_

_I'm gonna be the one that's takin' over_

_Now this is what it's like when worlds collide_

_Are you ready to go?_

_Cause I'm ready to go_

_What you gonna do baby, baby?_

-Powerman 5000-

She'd caught him unawares. That much is obvious. He'd opened the door far too readily for him to have been anticipating _her_ on the other side, but he recovers well. She'll give him that. His startled reaction lasts less than a heartbeat and then his face is transforming into an impenetrable mask of bored indifference. It's happens so quickly that most people would never even notice that his composure had slipped in the first place. But Georgina Sparks has never been most people. A mere fraction of a second is more than adequate for the likes of her. She doesn't need more than that. Never has. She lives for momentary displays of vulnerability, and the shock, hatred, and horror that flash within the depths of his brown eyes when he realizes she is in his hallway definitely qualifies.

"Georgina," Chuck swallows. "What are you doing here?" Although his expression is now unreadable, the slightest tremor in his voice betrays his anxiety.

Oh, this should be _fun_.

Ignoring his question, she examines him with deliberate slowness, taking in the sight of his eggplant purple sweater and butter yellow trousers with amusement, allowing her gaze to linger below his waist just long enough to be rewarded by him shifting his weight minutely. Yet another indication how unsettled he is at seeing her.

It's _adorable_, really.

She lifts her penetrating stare to meet his and purses her lips mischievously, deciding that throwing him off his guard again will not be much of a challenge. "Has Bass Industries recently decided to invest in candy?" she inquires in faux seriousness.

Clearly not following this non sequitur, Chuck blinks at her in confusion. "No," he says warily. "Why?"

"Just curious about why on earth you're wearing that outfit," she replies, reaching towards his clothing disdainfully, causing him to take a step back so that her extended fingers do not come in contact with his chest. This, of course, inadvertently moves him out of the doorway. "You look like Willy Goddamed Wonka, Chucky," she snorts over her shoulder as she slips past him and into his suite exactly as planned.

Sometimes manipulation is just _too_ easy.

"Hey!" he calls after her, his usually deep tone rising in fear, making him sound terribly young. "You can't come in! Get the hell out!"

"Now, now Chucky dear," she scolds playfully as she sinks onto his plush leather couch. "Is that anyway to greet an old friend?"

"You're not a friend," he snarls, glaring down at her, fury smoldering just beneath the surface of his words. Barely a minute has elapsed and already tension is radiating off of him.

Perfect.

In response, Georgina tilts her chin up to peer coyly at him. "All right," she sighs dramatically. "If you want to get technical, a former lover then." She punctuates the sentence with a flirtatious wink.

Seeing it, he grimaces in disgust, his jaw clenching so hard she can hear his teeth grinding together. Abruptly he snatches her wrist, clamping down upon it harshly and using it to wrench her to her feet. Despite the pain in her arm, she grins in victory. Anger makes people stupid and careless. It's a universal fact. She knows this well, and she knows him well enough to provoke him into rage. It won't even be difficult. Tonight Chuck Bass is a powder keg just waiting to explode, and she's brought plenty of metaphorical matches.

How fortuitous.

"Understand this, _bitch_," he sneers. "You aren't my friend, you were never my lover, and if you don't leave right now I swear I will – "

"You'll what, Chucky?" she taunts, pressing against him. "Play rough?" Her voice drops to a husky caress. "Please do."

With a strangled cry, he shoves her from him and she tumbles back onto the sofa with a laugh that makes him shudder. "Leave or I'll call security and have you thrown out," he orders breathlessly.

He just keeps getting more entertaining.

"You don't want to do that," she threatens, crossing her legs so that her mini dress rides up high enough to reveal that she isn't wearing anything beneath it. "That's really not a smart idea," she continues in a seductive purr while he cringes and glances away. "See, that would hurt my feelings, and you know how I get when my feelings are hurt."

Running his fingers roughly through his hair, still refusing to look in her direction, he growls, "I don't give a shit about your feelings!"

"That's pretty unfortunate," she muses aloud. "Things have a way of turning out _very_ badly for my friends when I'm upset."

"For the last time," he snaps in exasperation, "I am not your friend! _Things_ like you don't have friends!"

"Yes, things like me," she acquiesces, a patronizing twist of lips disguising her satisfaction at the opening he has presented her. "And like _you_ from what I gather," she adds with practiced nonchalance.

His head whips to the front. "Excuse me?"

Bingo.

"I heard you haven't exactly been Mr. Popular yourself lately," she goads with an arch of one slender brow. "Something about screwing a certain brunette. Care to elaborate?"

Instantly, he stiffens. "Go to hell."

"Oops. Did I hit a nerve?" she winces with false sincerity. "Or was she really that bad?"

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're hinting at," he declares with such conviction that she might _almost_ have believed him if she hadn't already known the truth.

"Nice try darling," she teases. "But you still can't lie to me. I know you better than anyone. I always will."

"Yes, well some things have a way of changing," he retorts.

"And yet some things never do, although your friendship with Nathaniel was obviously _not_ one of them," she points out maliciously. Then almost as an afterthought, she asks, "So was she worth it?"

"I don't know what – "

She sighs, cutting off his denial with an irritated flick of the wrist. "Drop the act, Chucky. I already read the blast about you banging your best friend's girl."

With her statement, his hands curl into fists, an unconsciously defensive gesture.

"I must say that I was a bit surprised," she mutters into the silence that descends. "I didn't think you had it in you. Nate's been nothing but loyal after all, but you proved me wrong." His rigid stance wilts slightly, shame clouding his features for a brief moment before she forges ahead with glee. "I am so _proud_. I was worried you'd forever be that pathetic little boy bawling on the couch." She leans back deeper into the plush cushions, touching the leather fondly. "_This_ couch if memory serves."

Something within him finally cracks. Georgina can see it in the way he abruptly flinches; hear it in his quick intake of breath. "Get the fuck out of my suite," he shouts, the broken child he had been long ago staring out of his eyes once more.

Wonderful.

Beyond delighted, and beaming with triumph, she commands, "Sit down, Chucky. I'm not going anywhere. And you really need to learn to control that temper of yours. It's going to get you into trouble."

"The only trouble I am having is you!" he snarls, glaring down at her in disdain, making the mistake of getting too close when he does so. Taking advantage of his error, she stretches out her foot and rubs it up the inside of his calf. At the contact, he hisses sharply through his teeth and practically _leaps_ backwards.

"My, my. _Someone's_ a little high strung," she announces. "You know, I hear that's very bad for the uh…" Allowing her voice to fade away, she wiggles her fingers in the direction of his crotch. Then she gasps suddenly in faux concern. "Oh! Is that why you're so agitated? Can't get it up? Feeling a bit sexually frustrated?" Before he can respond, she sweeps her hair to the side and exposes the pale line of her neck. "You poor dear, I'd be more than willing to help you out with that."

"Fuck you."

She smiles cruelly. "That _is_ the idea."

"I don't have time for this shit right now Georgina," he grinds out. "So why don't you just tell me why you're really here. What is it that you want? Whatever it is, I'll give to you if you'll just go the fuck away."

"Whatever I want, huh?"

"Yes, whatever the hell you want," he admits in palpable defeat. But when she drops her gaze suggestively and makes a move to stand, he steps hastily out of reach and amends, "_Excluding_ that."

"And if there isn't anything else I want?" she counters with a smirk.

His eyes narrow at her in loathing, revealing that while he may have conceded defeat, he isn't _that_ defeated. "Then I guess I'll have to take my chances with calling security," he spits.

"You used to be fun," she sulks.

"And you used to have a soul," he bites back.

"Careful, Chucky," she warns. "You might make me think you don't enjoy my company."

"I don't," he says emphatically. "As you are well aware. That's the main reason you're here, isn't it? To torment me?"

"You know me so well," she preens. "But I'm afraid you're wrong this time. Tormenting you isn't the _main _reason I came."

It's the _only_ reason. Wreaking havoc upon Serena was just a hilarious bonus, and also the perfect prelude to what she plans to do to him. His life had gotten far too comfortable in her absence and he had been much too close to having everything he had ever wanted. Luckily he seems to have botched it on his own, but she'll make certain that he doesn't get another chance at happiness. It just wouldn't do.

"To be honest – " she continues.

"You? Honest?" he snorts, cutting her off. "Talk about an oxymoron."

"Cute. But _honestly_ I just want to catch up," she lies smoothly.

"Catch up?" he repeats warily. "With me?"

She nods, "Exactly."

"Like you caught up with Serena?" he drawls, his voice sounding relieved.

Gullible moron.

"But of course, dear," she beams in assurance.

He beams back, his expression almost a perfect mirror of hers as he coos, "I don't think so _darling_."

At his mimicry, she suppresses an urge to throw something. She does not appreciate being ridiculed, and that answer had not been the one she was expecting. "You said I could have whatever I wanted," she bristles.

Dropping the pretense at pleasantry, he leans forward, his lip curling in contempt. "Well forgive me," he pleads, his tone oozing sarcasm. "But I changed my mind."

"Why? Don't you want to hang out with me? S and I had a lot of _fun_," she pouts, pretending to be upset, thinking that perhaps he isn't an idiot after all.

"Right," he glowers. "Because being _roofied_ is always fun."

"It's comments like that that make me wonder how you ever managed to become Carter's and my protégé," she notes idly.

"Because I balk at drugging people against their will?" he deadpans. "Thank you. I'm flattered."

"It wasn't a compliment," she sneers.

"Oh I know," he grins. "But anything that separates me from the likes of Carter Baizen and you, I will take as one."

"Sticks and stones, Chucky," she remarks scornfully. Maybe she should have just focused her efforts on the Bass heir all those years ago instead of splitting her attentions between him and Serena. The blonde always had been such a disappointment, and surely these unfortunate scruples could have been banished from his psyche if she'd given them enough _consideration_. Terror is a great motivator for change. "But really," she asserts after a second's hesitation, "You _should_ be thanking me."

He squints at her, clearly dubious. "For what?"

"For what?" she scowls. "For everything. I practically gave birth to you!"

The corner of his mouth twitches, an unmistakable sign that he's amused. "Actually, I believe that was my mother."

"Oh please," she scoffs. "I made you, Chucky."

"That would _also_ be my mother," he mutters softly with a grin. "As well as my father."

Drumming her fingers along her thigh in annoyance, Georgina huffs, "As much as I'm enjoying the witty repartee, how about we stop being literal for a moment?"

"But that takes all the _fun_ out of it," he laughs.

Overconfident bastard. How soon he forgets who he's dealing with. A reminder is _definitely_ in order.

"Okay, if you insist on being _juvenile_," she replies condescendingly, her lips drawing back into a predatory show of teeth that causes his laughter to die in his throat. "What did your parents give you that I didn't, huh? DNA? Abandonment issues? A penchant for purple? I gave you _strength,_ Chucky. A will to survive and the means to protect yourself. I made you who you are today. You would have been nothing without me. You're much better off. Trust me."

"Funny," he growls. "I seem to recall liking who I was just fine before you entered my life."

"The point _is_," she explains rapidly to hide her excitement at maneuvering him so deftly into a position to be hurt by his own insecurities, "I had as much a hand in creating you as your parents. Probably more since your mother saw fit to die and your father can't bear the sight of you."

His jaw tightens. "You don't know anything about my relationship with my father."

"Really?" she asks, triumph coloring her question. "So Bart _didn't_ throw you out then? That _isn't_ why you are living here and he is living with the van der Woodsens? Pardon me. My mistake."

Pausing just long enough for his guardedness to wane ever so slightly, she tosses out the most lethal comment as if it weren't a bomb at all. All the better to wound one with. "Congratulations on Bart's upcoming nuptials, though," she exclaims. "I'm sure you're thrilled. Lily is such a catch, and hopefully she'll be able to give your father the son he's always wanted."

His reaction is very subdued. It's hardly a flinch at all, more like the briefest flicker of eyelashes. But it's enough for her to have to fight down a sudden compulsion to pump her fist into the air.

Victory _is_ sweet.

Meeting her exultant gaze, Chuck swallows, "Get out." He is scarcely audible.

"Alright," Georgina sighs, rising to her feet and heading toward the exit without any protest. Before she reaches the door, however, she calls back offhandedly, "But if you won't entertain me, I guess I'll have to go visit Serena again."

When she hears him curse from the other room, followed immediately by hurried footsteps approaching from behind, she adjusts her stride. The slightly slower pace will easily allow him to catch up and ensure that when he does, the illusion that he is preventing her from leaving is maintained. He'll be lured into thinking he is in control of the situation then, and sometimes appearances are everything.

"Wait," he says begrudgingly, his outstretched palm making it impossible for her to open the door.

She turns to him, making a show of being curious. "Changing your mind so soon?"

"No. No, I just…" he fumbles for words. "You need to leave Serena alone."

Tilting her chin defiantly, she contradicts him. "I don't _need_ to do anything."

"I'm serious Georgina. Leave her alone."

Ah. Chuck Bass the valiant white knight. How ironically endearing.

She lifts an indulgent brow, mirth brimming in her eyes. "And why should I do that?"

Meeting her stare, understanding that she is humoring him, he moistens his lips. "She doesn't want to see you," he eventually sputters, his courage wavering although he as yet refuses to back down.

So precious.

If only he behaved this way all the time. It's so much more _rewarding_ to reduce him to tears when he attempts to stand up to her, and he's never done so in defense of another before. That deviation in his behavior will just make the dénouement in this dance of destruction that much more delicious

"How very astute," she taunts. "Did you figure that out all by yourself?" Before he can respond, she starts for the door again.

"I hear things too, you know," he blurts out suddenly.

That proclamation halts her forward movement. What the fuck has he heard? Who has been talking? Could Serena have confided in him? If so, there will be hell to pay!

With feline grace, she inclines her head. "Really?" she smirks. "Like what?"

"Like that you've been a little strapped for cash lately," he answers. "Since your parents cut you off."

"Well then you've heard wrong," she announces, relief washing over her along with irritation. She should not have been even remotely anxious in the first place. She is Georgina Sparks, and he… He is nothing but a toy. "About my funds at least. I'm loaded at the moment."

"You mean the Swiss Prince is loaded, right?" he smiles, still thinking he has something on her. "Is he still looking a bit paunchy?"

"Have you been keeping track of my whereabouts, Chucky?" she gushes with saccharine sarcasm. "I didn't know you cared."

"Of course I do," he replies in the same sugary tone. "If I don't know where you are, how will I know when to celebrate your inevitable demise?"

The Goddamned motherfucker is mocking her! Oh that will not be tolerated.

"As clever as these insults are, they're starting to get a little old, _dear," _Georgina whispers. "So why don't we dispense with the bullshit and cut to the chase?"

Hearing the danger in her soft tone, Chuck nods rapidly. "Alright. How much do you want?"

"Excuse me?"

"To not bother Serena again," he clarifies.

She blinks in skepticism. "You're willing to bribe me to leave S alone?"

"Yes."

He really _does_ want to look after the blonde. Interesting. Seems her protégés have _bonded_. So very sweet, and definitely something that can be used to her advantage.

"And if I don't want money?" she yawns. "What's it worth to you then?"

He shifts his stance nervously. "What do you have in mind?"

Big mistake asking that. Sloppy, sloppy.

"Oh I'd love to hear how you managed to bang the Waldorf bitch," she confesses with a wink. "Was her first time perhaps like yours, Chucky?"

"Well it was certainly memorable," he admits. "But I'm not telling you anything about it."

Foolish boy, assuming she actually wants the information. He should remember that the first request is always a decoy. As is the second…

"That's okay since there is something else I would much rather have." She reaches out to run her palm down the line of buttons on his shirt possessively.

Recoiling from her touch, he steps backward. "I'm not sleeping with you either."

"You just have to take all the fun out of everything, don't you?" she complains.

"No sex Georgina."

The third offer, however? It's _always_ the intended target.

"Fine," she shrugs, unconcerned. "I'll take a _kiss_ instead."

"No deal."

"Come on now Chucky," she teases, using reason against him. "What's the problem now? This is more than a fair trade. I'll leave S alone in exchange for a simple kiss."

He shakes his head, a vehement refusal. "Nothing is simple with you, and I already stipulated no sex."

"This _isn't_ sex," she retorts. "It's a kiss."

"And you expect me to believe that you aren't going to push for more?" he snorts in derision. "That you won't try to take liberties? That you don't even now have some sick little scheme already lying in wait that'll trap me into taking my pants off? I don't think so."

"Paranoid much?"

"I hardly think its paranoia when you came to my place not wearing underwear," he drawls sardonically.

"Touché," she snickers, giving _him_ a tiny bow since she can't exactly bow to _herself_. "But you really don't have a choice, you know."

"What are you – "

Quickly she cuts him off. "If you don't kiss me," she promises, "I'll make Serena's life hell, and what will you say to her after I inform her that you could have prevented it with a single, solitary kiss and you wouldn't do it? What will _Blair_ think? They're still connected at the hip, aren't they?"

He is silent for a second, and then glares at her with livid eyes. "You fucking whore, I hate – "

"So we're agreed?" she interrupts with a laugh.

"You want to be kissed, bitch?" he sneers. "Fine." Grabbing her roughly, he jerks her against his chest. His hands twist harshly in her hair until she winces from the pain, and only then does he lower his face to hers.

The kiss is vindictive, brutal, savage. He bites at her mouth even as her tongue dares to venture into his. She begins to wrap her arms around his waist, but he breaks the kiss and shoves her back violently into the wall.

Panting slightly, she touches her lips, sees her fingers come away smeared slightly with blood. Raising her gaze to his, she licks them clean, a challenge in her glacial eyes. "If _that_ is how you kissed Blair Waldorf," she taunts, "I can see why she went back to Nate."

A look of anguish so raw its very pureness takes her breath away flashes over his features, and then his face contorts in unrestrained rage.

"Get out of my suite you psychotic – " he demands, his voice deep and authoritative as he wrenches his door open.

But his rant ends quite unexpectedly when he spots a petite brunette standing in the hallway, her tiny fist hovering in the air as if she'd been about to knock, her expression utterly startled.

"Bass, have you seen Ser – " Blair begins, and then those chocolate orbs of hers settle over his shoulder and instantly darken with accusations. "What is _she_ doing here?"

Oh goody.

**A/N:** To Sam. *hugs*


	36. Chapter 36

_You drain me dry and make me wonder why I'm even here_

_The double vision I was seeing is finally clear_

_You want to stay but you know very well I want you gone_

_Not fit to fucking tread the ground that I am walking on_

-Maroon 5-

Oh God.

It's like a scene from a nightmare, one he's had many times. And in some ways it is so much worse than any bad dream he's _ever_ had because at least in dreams, when things get too horrific, one has a tendency to wake up, and there is no waking up from this no matter how awful it gets.

If he didn't know better, he'd say the evil bitch had planned it. But no. Her soft gasp when he opened the door was too genuine even for an actress of her caliber. If for only a moment, she had been just as surprised as he. But of course, being the sadistic whore she is, she recovers first.

"Blair!" Georgina squeals, brushing past him with wicked glee to throw her arms around the new arrival. "It's been too long! How are you?"

Stiffening in the embrace, Blair's chocolate gaze finds his over Georgina's scrawny shoulder, her eyes narrowing in contempt while Georgina giggles her greeting, an abrasively mocking sound in his ears.

"I'm fine," Blair gushes after a fractional pause, disentangling herself from the hug with false enthusiasm etched across her delicate features. "Whatever are you doing here? I didn't realize you were back in the city."

Chuck recognizes that look, that tone. They're the same ones she used when Serena had first returned, back when they were enemies instead of friends, when the blonde had crashed her soiree and news of the arrival had driven Blair's then boyfriend from her bed.

Blair is beyond pissed, at him most likely, and Georgina is smirking that Cheshire cat smirk, the one that curdles his stomach and makes his blood run cold because she's pleased. Even worse, she's _happy_, and that can only mean that things are going to go downhill very fast. She gets off on inflicting pain, the kind that cuts deepest but never breaks the skin. She deals in metaphorical wounds and emotional scars.

And really there is little he can do to stop whatever it is she is planning because Blair is here, and that gives the hell spawn a significant edge. She's in control of the situation now, because he doesn't want Blair to become a pawn in their game of chess and will do whatever his nemesis wants in order to ensure that doesn't occur, and she fucking knows it, and that cruel grin of hers is so Goddamned gloating and brimming with malevolent intent that he would genuinely love nothing more than to see her get her teeth kicked in. If only Queen B would rear her spiteful head and do the honors, his life would be complete.

But no. Blair may be a formidable bitch, but she is no match for the likes of Georgina Sparks. Not right now. Not when she has no clue what the psychotic whore is actually capable of. She'd make the mistake of assuming Georgina operated under the same code of ethics most of the Upper East Side did, and that error in judgment would cost her dearly.

So really the best thing he can possibly do at the moment is not draw attention to himself or provoke Georgina until Blair leaves.

Praying, however, might also be wise.

Cause try as he might to conceal it, he loves her, and the slut will surely sense it if she hasn't already, and that attachment makes Blair his biggest weakness, his own personal Kryptonite, because she can be used against him.

As if reading his thoughts, Georgina's smile deepens. "Oh, I haven't been in town long," she says coyly. "And well, Chucky here has been keeping me all to himself."

"Has he now?" Blair deadpans, giving him an icy glare.

"Oh yes!" Georgina beams as though oblivious to the effect her comments are having when in actuality she is without doubt more than fully aware.

Fucking bitch.

Throwing him a smoldering glance, her voice laden with innuendo, she continues, "We've been _catching_ up, having _fun_, reliving _old_ times."

It's ironic that this statement may just be the most honest thing Georgina has ever uttered in his presence. Of course, she doesn't really _need_ to lie at the moment. Blair will misinterpret the truth all on her own without much embellishment on Georgina's part.

And from the way her lips thin ever so slightly, she already has.

But that minor reaction isn't enough for Georgina. So to really drive the implication of her words home, she steps forward and snuggles into him in a flirtatious manner that makes him want to vomit as her sickeningly sweet vanilla perfume envelops him. He starts to recoil, but she tightens her grip on him, digging her fingernails into his skin, and bats her lashes at him playfully, the veiled threat in those glacial eyes very clear. If he moves away, she will make certain he regrets it.

Don't panic, Bass. Don't panic. That's what she secretly wants. So just breathe. Ignore the palm grazing over your ass. It'll all be over soon.

"That's… great," Blair mumbles absently, her expression brittle for a brief second as she watches Georgina cling to him with an air of possession. Then she flashes a dazzling smile as if she couldn't care less that he is being pawed by the girl she'd hated since sixth grade. "But I really should be going," she announces suddenly. "I was just looking for Serena, and obviously she's not here and well…" Her voice trails off as Georgina starts toying with the buttons on his shirt. "It was _nice_ seeing you, G," Blair blurts out suddenly, not even bothering to try to sound sincere. "Maybe we can catch up some other time." And without waiting for a response, she turns on her heel and hurries away at a pace just shy of a sprint, but not before he sees the tears brimming along her lashes.

Oh shit! She's crying! Damn it all to hell!

"Get off me whore," Chuck hisses as he jerks away from Georgina's foul touch. "And if you know what's good for you, you won't be here when I get back," he adds before dashing after Blair, hoping he isn't too late to catch up with her. And for perhaps the first time today, luck is on his side. "Blair, wait," he calls out just as she steps into the elevator. "Wait, please!"

She frantically begins pushing the button for the doors to close, but he snakes an arm through the opening before they can, preventing them from shutting so he is able to slip inside. "Blair, I'm sorry," he begins, at a loss for something more to say. God only knows what she's thinking she walked in on.

In response, Blair stares resolutely at the wall, like he's not even there, her composed mask once more firmly in place, a deadly calm radiating from her rigidly held frame.

Trying again, Chuck begs, "Blair, _please_ talk to me."

For several long tense moments, she pretends he hadn't spoken, acts like he doesn't even exist. Then she lifts her chin in a subtly defiant gesture. "I have _nothing_ to say to you, Bass," she remarks coldly, still refusing to look at him. "Nor will I ever."

"Fine," he sighs in exasperation. "Just _listen_ then, okay?" When she doesn't acknowledge him again but starts humming some annoying little ditty under her breath that sounds suspiciously like Britney Spears, he drags a key ring from his trouser pocket. If she won't listen willingly, he'll give her no other choice.

Being the son of the hotel's owner has its perks, and having a copy of the key to the elevator's emergency break is one of them. The thing had come in handy countless times before on those occasions when it just wasn't convenient to take a drunken bimbo back to his suite to bang when the elevator was so much closer, and now it is going to prove its worth once more.

After inserting one of the small, silver keys into the lock, Chuck rotates it, halting the elevator between the 50th and 51st floors.

That immediately earns him a murderous glare. "How dare you!" Blair shouts. "You can't trap me in – "

"Save it, Waldorf," he snaps, cutting off her tirade. "My hotel. My elevator. Now just shut up and listen for one goddamned minute, please." He pauses, letting his frustration dissipate. He isn't mad at her. Not really. He's just defensive still from being around the malicious bitch. "Up at my suite," he continues in a more gentle tone, "It wasn't what it looked like. Nothing happened with me and Georgina."

"Oh?" she spits in derision. "So that _isn't_ her lipstick smeared all over your face?"

In dread, he wipes at his mouth and sure enough, the back of his hand comes away with a telltale crimson smudge.

Piss.

"I can explain – "

"I don't want you to explain," she sneers. "I don't want to talk to you ever again. You're heinous and I hate you and I never should have come here in the first place!"

"Why did you then?" he asks.

She blinks in confusion. "What?"

"If I'm so heinous and you hate me," he grinds out angrily, "Why the hell were you about to knock on my door?"

"I… I told you," she sputters. "I came here for my best friend."

Cocking a sardonic brow, he drawls, "Is that the only reason?"

"Yes!" she snarls with vehemence. "I was looking for Serena."

"Then why don't your eyes match your mouth?" he observes swiftly.

"Excuse me?"

"It's your tell, Waldorf," he leers. "Whenever you lie, your eyes and your mouth don't match." He drops his gaze deliberately to her slightly parted ruby lips. "Like they don't right now."

Electricity crackles in the small space between them and she gasps, a sharp intake of air that is all the confirmation he needs that Blair had ulterior motives in coming to see him. Finding Serena had just been an excuse.

"You're imagining things!" she bristles at last, before rotating her body away from him and the growing intensity in his stare.

"Am I?" he counters, his very words a provocative challenge.

"Yes!" Blair asserts.

"Then why won't you look at me all of a sudden?" he retorts smugly.

"Why?" she repeats bitterly. Then she whirls on him, unexpected rage contorting her features. "Because you disgust me!" she exclaims, stabbing him in the chest with an accusatory finger. "You talk about butterflies and figuring things out and three words, eight letters and then you turn around screw that… that _tramp_!"

"I didn't!" Chuck insists, attempting to prevent her from jabbing his sternum once again. He can tell he's going to have quite a bruise there already. "I swear!"

"I just saw you together!" Blair shrieks.

Succeeding in capturing her wrists, he cries over her struggles, "You don't know what you saw Waldorf."

Resorting to kicking now that her hands are pinned, Blair hisses, "She was in your room, rubbing against you like a cat in heat, with her lipstick all over your face, and you expect me to believe I _misconstrued_ what was going on?"

"You know what?" Chuck snarls, his grip on her loosening enough for her to get away after she manages to stomp on his foot with the heel of her Louboutin pumps. "Believe whatever you like. You will anyway. I'm Chuck Bass after all. Why should I be allowed to explain anything? I'm not your darling Nate who can do no wrong!"

With a furious movement, he twists the key in the lock, restarting the elevator's descent as both of them stand there on opposite sides of it in furious silence, neither daring to look at the other.

"For what it's worth," he scowls long moments later, after the elevator stops on three floors and the people waiting to get on decide they'll catch the next one since the tension radiating out of this one is beyond palpable, "I did not sleep with Georgina again. Nor would I ever. I don't do second rounds with _any_ girl, and _especially_ not with her."

Blair's reply is so soft, he almost doesn't hear it. "What about me?"

"Huh?"

Hesitantly, she peers across the elevator at him. "You just said you don't do any girl twice," she mutters. "But from what I recall, that isn't entirely true."

"You're not any girl, Waldorf," he sighs, equal parts exasperation and hope. "You never have been."

"Oh?" she inquires, perhaps a little hopeful herself. "So what _am_ I then, Chuck?"

"You're…"

_The One._

The response springs to his mind immediately, but he cannot say that to her. That particular statement is tantamount to saying 'I love you,' and he isn't ready to make either admission. Not when their relationship is still so tenuous. Not when the possibility that she'll snort 'Well that's too bad' remains. He may not have much pride where she is concerned anymore, but he has some, and it is enough.

"You're a woman, Waldorf," he answers instead, praying his brusqueness will end her line of questioning. Still, he cannot quite resist amending in a gentler tone, "An _amazing_ woman."

"But you've been with women before," she states, undeterred. "And I'd hazard a guess that some of them were also amazing, correct?"

He shifts uncomfortably, glancing away. "I suppose."

"And yet you're telling me that you haven't slept with _any_ of them more than once?" Her skepticism is evident.

"I haven't," he growls, scared that this is going to erupt into another argument and feeling powerless to stop it.

But inexplicably, Blair closes the distance between them without a scathing remark or a biting comment. "Besides me?" she whispers from mere inches away, the hem of her skirt brushing his pants.

"Besides you," he confirms with a fractional nod, his hand reaching out to cradle her cheek of its own volition.

"Why is that, Chuck?" she murmurs, leaning into his palm, a hint of emotion coloring her voice that he finds both thrilling and terrifying. "Why me?"

"You know why," he breathes, thumb stroking the softness of her cheek, desire and longing blazing to life from even this minimal contact.

She tilts her chin up, a desperate yearning in the chocolate depths of her eyes. "Well maybe I need a reminder."

He swallows, afraid this is some kind of trick. "Is that so?"

She moistens her lips. "Yes."

He steps forward, encircling her with his arms. "Why?"

"Because…" she says, and then before his mouth can settle over hers, she continues. "Because I saw Nate today."

He reels back as if stung. "Excuse me?"

"He was with Cabbage Patch's friend, Vanessa. You know, that wannabe Michael Moore?" Blair explains. "They… they left the SATs together."

So this is about Nathaniel. He should have known.

"Oh?" he sneers with venom. "So you felt rejected by Nate _again_ and decided to come here so I could make you feel better?"

"It… It isn't like that," she maintains, shocked by his abrupt harshness.

"Really?" he snorts in disbelief. "Because that's exactly what it sounds like."

"Would you shut up for a moment?" she wails.

"Why should I Waldorf?" Chuck roars. "I'm sick of this shit! I'm tired of you treating me like the conciliation prize every time Nate wants someone other than you!"

"You know what? Fuck off, Bass!" she cries. "I was going to say that I recognized the way he looked at her because it was the same way he used to look at me and I had thought that look was special, but today I realized it wasn't. It's just the way he looks at a girl, _any_ girl, when he's with them, and it isn't at all like the way you look at me, the way you've _always_ looked at me, but never mind!"

"Blair – "

She slaps his hands away viciously. "No, no! Don't touch me. I fucking hate you!" she screeches. "Go back to _Georgina_. She's _perfect_ for you. You're _made_ for each other."

Then the doors of the elevator open and she shoves him back so forcefully that he loses his footing and stumbles against the wall, allowing her a few precious seconds to scramble out into the lobby before he can recover enough to give chase. In her haste to flee, she collides with a passing bellboy, losing her grip on one of the handles of her purse, some of the contents spilling out across the marble floor as a result. But she doesn't stop to pick them up, or apologize to the staff member, or even let the accident slow her down. She is intent on getting away from him, and before Chuck can stop her, she is dashing out onto the sidewalk, flinging herself into a taxi, and the vehicle is pulling away from the curb.

Goddamn it!

That was his moment. She'd been ready to admit she did care. He knew it, could feel it in his soul, and he'd missed his chance because –

"The young Miss dropped these Sir."

"What?" Chuck snaps at the individual who had intruded on his thoughts.

"The girl that was in the elevator with you, Sir," the bellboy says apologetically, withering under his glare. "These… These fell out of her purse."

"Thank you," Chuck grinds out, taking the proffered items and glancing at them idly.

A compact, a tube of lipgloss, a pen, and a… DVD.

With trepidation, he flips over the case to see what movie it is, and his heart clenches at the familiar cover.

Gone With the Wind.

How ironic.

Did he need any more proof than that that this was the day she'd planned to acknowledge how she felt? He'd once confessed the film was one of his favorites, and today it had been in her purse when she'd come to see him. It couldn't have been coincidental. She'd _remembered _and had wanted to watch it with him, only to find him with Georgina and leap to the wrong conclusions, and then _he_ had leapt to the wrong conclusions when she'd brought up Nathaniel, and now everything is just terribly, horribly fucked and he might as well consign himself to being miserable for the rest of his life because it will take a miracle for Blair Waldorf to ever deign to speak to him again. He has effectively lost her before he ever really had her.

God _fucking_ damn it!

He storms back to his suite, wrenching the door open, and heading straight to the wet bar, intent on drinking himself into oblivion, but stops short when he spies Georgina reclining on his couch.

"Why the hell are you still here?" he hisses in barely restrained fury.

Standing and sauntering towards him with an exaggerated sway of hips, the evil bitch smiles like the predator she is. "Why so upset Chucky? Have a little spat with your girlfriend?" she coos.

"She isn't my girlfriend."

"No, but you want her to be," Georgina giggles. "And that just makes her rejection of you that much worse, doesn't it? It's precious, really."

"I'm glad you find it amusing, now get out."

"I was hoping you'd want to work out some of that pent up aggression you have first," she suggests huskily. "It's not healthy to keep it all inside, and I know a great way to relieve some of it."

"Georgina," Chuck leers in a seductive whisper, taking her hands in his own and drawing her close, "I'd rather cut it off than put it in you." Then he shoves her back so forcefully she stumbles in her stilettos. "And unless I'm mistaken," he continues, "We had a deal. I kiss you, you go the fuck away. So I strongly suggest you stop goading me and follow through with that, or I may decide to reconsider the terms of our arrangement."

"It's not like you can take the kiss back, Chucky," she taunts. "Although you're certainly welcome to try."

"As much as I'm sure that prospect would excite you, I think I'll have to decline," he drawls in disgust. "But that wasn't exactly the arrangement I was referring to."

Georgina snorts condescendingly, clearing thinking she is in control like she normally is, like she had been even minutes prior, before Blair had fled from that elevator. "Well I don't have the faintest idea what deal you're alluding to," she yawns in disinterest. "So I'm afraid you have me at a slight disadvantage."

"Oh, I'm quite aware that I have you at a disadvantage," he nods, letting his hatred of her override his fear. "And there is nothing _slight_ about it, and let me just say how much _fun_ this occasion is turning out to be because of that."

Her eyes narrow dangerously. "Cut the crap and get to the point Chucky. If there is one."

"The point, Georgina _dear_," he deadpans with extreme effort, "Is that I have you in an extremely precarious position."

She blinks. "I'm not following."

"We reached an armistice once, remember?"

"Yes, and?"

"And as I recall," he continues, "The conditions of that ceasefire were that I wouldn't release the pictures I had of you so long as you didn't tell people I raped you. It was _mutually_ beneficial, as we both had something we didn't want to lose." Unable to suppress his delight any longer, he breaks into a triumphant smirk. "But I'm afraid that isn't quite true anymore."

"Excuse me?"

"You don't have anything on me, Georgina. Not anymore," he explains. "So forgive me if I find your threat to tell people I'm a rapist a little hollow at the moment." Grinning, he gestures with a patronizing flourish. "But go ahead if you'd like. Announce it to the world. Be my guest. What's the _worst_ that could happen?"

"You'll lose your – "

He cuts her off with a cynical laugh. "I'll lose what? My family? My father already can't stand me. You said so yourself. I'll lose my friends? Oh, wait… Already did, as you so helpfully pointed out. Blair will hate me? Newsflash. She already does. You made sure of that just now. So what else is there?"

His smile fades, his face becoming a mask of neutrality, almost icy in its detachment, the kind of expression people think of when they envision serial killers. "I've already lost everything, Georgina," he says, an almost hysterical note in his voice despite his emotionless visage. "There's nothing left for your lies to take away. So I recommend you let yourself out, and fly back to Switzerland, and never ever darken my door again so I'm not tempted to show those photographs of mine to the world, because while I don't usually take sadistic pleasure in destroying the lives of others, with you I'm fairly certain I could be persuaded into making an exception."

She gapes at him for a second, as if assessing his determination, checking for a weakness to exploit, and finding none, she walks to the exit without another word.

"Georgina," he calls after her once he hears the door of his suite open. "Always a pleasure."

The only response is the slamming of the door.


	37. Chapter 37

_I won't suffer, be broken_

_Get tired, or wasted_

_Surrender to nothing_

_I'll give up what I started and stop this_

_From end to beginning_

_A new day is coming_

_And I am finally free_

_Runaway, runaway_

_I'll attack_

-30 Seconds to Mars-

When one of the wealthiest men in Manhattan, and consequently the world, who just so happens to be a notorious womanizer has a bachelor party, one can safely assume it is going to be an event to remember. Most likely, this is not going to be a one night only affair with a keg and a stripper, but a week long romp across continents featuring the most lavish locales, an abundance of exotic and _very_ willing women, and enough drunken debauchery to make the devil himself blush. It's what one expects, and in the Upper East Side, those expectations are usually met and often _exceeded_.

Except, of course, when they aren't. At all. Because that wasn't the goal. Because the groom actually loves his fiancée and had messed up with her too often already and didn't want to give her any possible excuse to balk again, not ever, and especially not days before the wedding.

So at this particular bachelor party in Monte Carlo, the scantily clad women are nowhere to be found. There is no alcohol overindulgence, and no inappropriate activity of any kind. There are, however, meetings with various members of the hotel's managerial staff, inspections of their facilities, examinations of their bookkeeping.

Because to Bart Bass, 'bachelor party' is apparently synonymous with business trip.

Naturally, Chuck had known this already. He knew his father. All work, no play. But he'd hoped that when his father's secretary had faxed over the itinerary, it had meant more than Bart wanting to bring his son along to pour over receipts and tax records, so he could micromanage him and prevent him from screwing up his relationship with Lily while he was absent. Foolishly, Chuck had thought that perhaps the slip of paper carefully detailing the travel arrangements for their trip had signaled that he'd have a chance to spend quality time with his dad. That they'd be able to share a drink, or lounge by the pool, or play a round of golf together, as father and son, while the Bass family still consisted of two, Bart and Chuck, before it expanded to become Bart and Chuck and Lily and Eric and Serena.

He should have known better.

Bart was always so stiff and formal with him. Constantly a father. Never a dad. And this trip had proved no exception. Truthfully, he'd been surprised he'd been allowed to go at all. After Bart had unceremoniously kicked him out, he had assumed his invitation had been rescinded along with being his father's best man. He'd been wrong, obviously, as the fax had so impersonally informed him. It hadn't been an apology or a request for him to move back into the penthouse. It hadn't even been an olive branch really. More like a twig. But it had been enough. For him it may as well have been the whole goddamned tree! It gave him hope, encouraged him to dream that this time things would be different between them, that maybe this mini vacation would be a new start for them both.

But no. The trip had ended without them so much as spending more than a few strained meals in each other's company and now they were somewhere over the ocean on the way back to New York, flying in silence because Bart had taken sleeping pills to minimize his jet lag upon arrival. It's something Chuck was prone to doing himself, but still he cannot help but be resentful. Even on the ride home, his father refused to converse with him.

Fucking typical.

Climbing out of his seat, Chuck makes his way to the bathroom. In the cramped compartment, he splashes water on his face and scrutinizes his reflection in the tiny mirror. The white dress shirt. The expertly tailored suit. The paisley silk knot at his throat.

He looks good. For someone flying, he looks _extremely_ good. And yet, he doesn't really look like himself. His appearance is _different_.

It's the tie, he concludes with a grimace. It isn't his usual bowtie, but a real tie. Knotted and straightened and clipped to his chest in a conscious imitation of his father, in the hope that he'd notice, that those steely blue eyes would hold something other than disappointment for once because the past week had been emotionally draining. Because there was only so much disapproval Chuck could stand before it wore him down and made him feel worthless. Because he'd been stupid enough to think the bachelor party might be an opportunity for them to _bond_.

Tearing the offending tie off, he tosses it into the sink and is making his way back to his seat when his cell rings. Glancing at the caller ID for a second, he flicks the phone open with a smile.

"Hey little brother," he greets. "What's up?"

Eric's voice comes over the line, soft and strangely detached. "They know."

"Huh?"

"They know," Eric repeats. "Mom and Serena. They just found out."

"Found out what?"

"That… that I'm gay," Eric whispers, some emotion causing his pitch to rise, making him sound terribly young.

A tingle of foreboding uncoils in Chuck's belly, but he tries to disregard it, praying that he's just hearing the younger boy's half of the conversation incorrectly due to the distance. "So you told them then?" he asks.

"No," Eric says. "No, Georgina did."

"What?!?" Chuck exclaims, and if his father hadn't been sleeping a drug induced sleep, he would have certainly woken up. "Georgina's there?"

"Yeah, she came over for dinner," Eric confirms. "And she just announced that… that I'm gay in front of everyone and… and it was bad."

Goddamn it.

Chuck should've known the hell spawn hadn't given up. That getting rid of her had all been too easy. That the reason his private investigators couldn't locate her abroad wasn't because she'd adopted a new identity, but because she hadn't ever left! She'd been hiding out in the city somewhere, biding her time until a suitable opportunity for destruction presented itself, and rather than come against him directly, she'd gone after those around him, those less able to defend themselves, those trusting innocent bystanders… like Eric.

Sadistic bitch.

Why the hell hadn't he anticipated she'd do something like this? He'd been careless, had assumed that if Georgina went after anyone other than him, it would be Serena and so he'd only prepared for that eventuality, calling the reformed party girl almost daily while he'd been in Europe to make sure the whore wasn't using his absence to wreak havoc upon her former protégé, and all the while the evil slut was just waiting to go after his unsuspecting little brother.

God _fucking_ damn it!

This is all his fault. He'd let himself become distracted by the prospect of one-on-one time with his father during the bachelor party and vain attempts to make amends with Blair before he'd left for the trip, and now Eric is suffering for it, and it isn't like either scenario had panned out anyway. The bachelor party had been a total bust and his every attempt to apologize to Blair had been met with frosty silence, murderous glares, and on one occasion when he had made the mistake of grabbing her arm to prevent her from storming off so she'd be forced to stay and listen to him, a rather impressive bruise on his shin, and now Eric, open and honest and accepting Eric, had been shoved out of the closet by Chuck's own personal nemesis way before he was ready to be out.

"It was really, really bad," Eric continues, his words interrupting Chuck's mental rant at himself. "Mom… she wouldn't even look at me."

"Is she still there?" Chuck grinds out, raking his fingers through his hair, wishing desperately that he was there with Eric right now instead of trapped over the Atlantic in a private jet.

"Who? Mom?" Eric asks, his confusion evident.

"No," Chuck replies quickly. "Georgina. Is she there still?"

"I don't think so," Eric mumbles. "I'm in my room, but I'm pretty sure she left."

"Good," Chuck sighs, relieved that the bitch wasn't there inflicting more damage. "Now, about your mom," he says, switching back to the matter at hand. "Lily loves you. You know that. She was probably just caught off guard and wasn't ready to be told yet."

Eric snorts bitterly. "Well, I wasn't ready to tell either."

"Yeah, I know," Chuck winces. "I'm sorry about that. Georgina can be..."

"A bitch?" Eric deadpans.

"My thoughts exactly," the older boy laughs. Then his voice turns serious. "But you let me tell her that, okay? And if she happens to come back to the suite tonight, you call me and put her on the phone. Got it?"

"Sure."

"And don't worry about your mom," Chuck asserts. "Give her time. She'll come around. You'll see."

"If you say so," Eric remarks skeptically.

"I know so," Chuck counters, praying that it is true. "Now try to get some sleep. Our plane lands in a few hours and I'll be there first thing in the morning."

"Yeah, okay," Eric murmurs, nearly inaudible.

"Hang in there. Goodnight, Eric."

"Bye."

After waiting for the line to go dead, Chuck slowly shuts his phone. It is only once the mobile clicks closed that he realizes the hand holding it is shaking with barely contained rage, his knuckles white and bloodless. Tension radiates along his whole body, utter loathing churning his stomach, making him taste bile at the back of his throat, and as he swallows the acid back down he comes to a decision.

Something _seriously_ needs to be done about Georgina Sparks.

**A/N:** Sorry for the shorter chapter. I'm a stickler about keeping canon details correct, and there are some major continuity issues between episodes 1.16 and 1.17 that I just did not want to deal with. But I promise the next chapter will more than make up for the shorter length or this one. Non-judging Breakfast Club anyone? :D


	38. Chapter 38

_But there's nowhere to hide from the ghost in my mind_

_It's cold in these bones of a man and a child_

_And there's no one who knows, and there's nowhere to go_

_There's no one to see who can see to my soul_

-Steven Satar-

When one is stiff and sore, exhausted from jet lag, and facing a whirlwind of wedding related crap for the next two days, one is allowed to dress for comfort when not donning the obligatory tux. When one is Chuck Bass, however, that proves problematic. His clothes are not designed for comfort, but rather for style. So after rummaging through his closet for a ridiculous amount of time, he finally settles on a button up shirt, a tie, a sweater, and a pair of plaid pants. It isn't exactly casual, but it is as close to comfortable as he can get, especially when he is going to be under the stern and watchful eyes of his father. Bart is always quick to find fault with his son, and Chuck is not about to give him any excuse so close to the ceremony to revoke his position as best man. That is his opportunity to prove that he can be counted on and should be given another chance to live with the rest of the family.

He wouldn't ever admit it, but after staying in the joint der Woodsen-Bass penthouse, his suite seems downright lonely. There was always something going on in the apartment, always people around to take the edge off his despair. He'd gotten used to it, and didn't realize how important it had become to him until Bart had kicked him out and it was gone, and now he was willing to do almost anything to get it back.

How bitterly ironic that this seems to be a recurring theme in the story of his life.

After a short ride in the elevator, he reaches the top floor of the Palace Hotel and steps inside his old residence. The usually calm and quiet penthouse is a cacophony of carefully controlled chaos. Caterers and florists and maids and other random staff members bustle to and fro, swarming like bees while someone who is probably the wedding planner barks orders in a tone strident enough to cut through the noise. Just watching it for a couple moments gives Chuck a headache, so he decides to avoid the pandemonium and saunters up the staircase to knock quietly upon one of the doors.

"Come in," a voice calls, and he enters the bedroom, finding Eric standing before his wardrobe still clad in pajamas, his hair mussed from sleep.

"Chuck, you're back!" the younger boy greets with an infectious smile.

"Bright and early, as promised," Chuck grins, sitting down upon a chair adjacent to the unmade bed.

"How was Monte Carlo?"

Thinking of the few occasions he had spent time with Bart during the trip, and how entirely unpleasant and strained those meals had been, Chuck grimaces. "Be glad you didn't come."

"That bad, huh?"

"Worse," he acknowledges, before waving dismissively. "But enough about that. How are you doing? Did you get stuff worked out with Lily yesterday, or is she still acting weird?"

"No, Mom and I are fine now," Eric says as he opens a drawer to pull out a pair of slacks. "She just needed a little time to process everything, like you said."

"That's good."

"Yeah it is," the blonde agrees, but not with the enthusiasm one would expect.

In response, Chuck's gaze narrows in scrutiny. "You don't sound happy," he points out, watching his brother intently for subtle changes in body language. "Why is that? Is something else bothering you?"

Eric glances away for a fraction of a second, strengthening Chuck's misgivings. Something is definitely troubling him. But what?

"Have you not checked Gossip Girl today?" Eric mumbles eventually, shifting his weight, staring at the floor as if the carpet holds the secrets of the universe.

"No, not since last night," Chuck admits. "Should I have?" Anxiety uncoils in his belly, and then a thought strikes him, making his blood run cold. "Did Georgina do something else? I told you to call me if she came back here!"

If that sadistic bitch had –

"No, no," Eric insists. "It's nothing like that."

Relieved, yet still somewhat skeptical, Chuck arches one brow. "Then what is it?"

The younger boy peers at him, moistening his lips in an unconsciously nervous gesture. "Do you know Asher Hornsby?"

This catches Chuck somewhat off guard. "I've seen him around. Goes to Unity, right? On their lacrosse team?"

"Yeah, that's him."

"And what does he have to do with you?"

Eric clears his throat, a blush rising in his cheeks. "We were sort of… dating. Until last night."

"Oh, I see," Chuck ventures carefully, knowing that for Eric his sexuality is an extremely new subject for conversation. "You broke up then?"

"Yeah," Eric nods. "Because he called me a faggot."

Chuck's jaw clenches. "He what?"

"He didn't want anyone to know he was gay," the blonde explains, unaware to the anger radiating off of Chuck more strongly with every sentence. "So he was pretending to go out with my friend Jenny, but she thought the relationship was real, and I just couldn't stand there anymore and not say anything and act like I was okay with him deceiving her that way." He stops, raking his fingers through his hair. "So I confronted him about it, and demanded he tell her the truth, and rather than do that, he called me a liar and a faggot and told me to get the hell out of his party. Luckily Blair – "

Despite his rage, Chuck perks up at the mention of that name. "Blair was there?"

"Yeah. You should have seen her," Eric beams. "It was great. Somehow she'd gotten Asher's phone, and I told her to forward all our text message conversations to Gossip Girl, and she did, and now everyone knows he's gay."

Chuck blinks, wondering if Eric had somehow missed the obvious downside of outing his ex in such a manner. "But doesn't that mean everyone knows you're gay too?"

Eric's face hardens, closing down, his eyes losing the warmth they commonly hold. "Yeah," he spits in a voice Chuck has never heard before and does not like coming from his little brother. "But announcing to the whole Upper East Side that Unity's man about town likes dick was more than worth it. Asshole had it coming."

"Sounds like it," Chuck agrees, making a mental note to see that Asher Hornsby is blacklisted from every event on the social calendar that Bass Industries is even remotely connected with. Nobody hurts Eric to such a degree and escapes with only one public humiliation. He will ensure that the fucker rues the day he insulted someone Chuck Bass considers family. "Just the same," he continues, thoughts of Asher's impending ostracism putting a familiar twist in his lips, "I'm sorry you had to go through all that."

"It's not your fault Asher turned out not to be who I thought he was," Eric sighs, his expression softening back into its usual earnestness, albeit with an edge of sadness that hadn't been there before, and some tension in Chuck's shoulders he didn't even realize he was carrying relaxes. "And it isn't like I wouldn't have had to come out of the closet sometime anyway. It just happened a bit sooner than I'd anticipated is all."

"However true that may be, I still wish I had been here when it all went down," Chuck replies, if for no other reason than being able to offer support when Eric had needed it most.

"Well you're here now. That's what matters," the younger boy shrugs, a glint of mischief sparkling in the depths of his brown irises. "Besides there are more important things to fret over at the moment."

"Oh yeah?"

"Of course," Eric declares. "There's a wedding tomorrow and you have a best man speech to write!"

"How do you know I haven't already done it?" Chuck counters.

"I just do," Eric deadpans, turning back to his dresser in search of clothes. "Call it a hunch. That or I'm psychic."

Chuck scowls slightly. "You are too smart for your own good you do realize?"

Tossing Chuck a quick glance, Eric breaks into a conspiratorial grin. "I get it from my brother."

"Flattery will get you everywhere, Eric van der Woodsen," Chuck laughs, throwing a decorative pillow that Eric easily dodges. "Anyway, I'll let you finish getting ready while I grab some breakfast downstairs before Serena eats all the strawberries like she usually does."

"No worries. She isn't here."

Halfway out the door, Chuck stops. "What?"

"Serena," Eric clarifies. "She's not here. She went out last night after Georgina took off. Said something about going to see Blair. They probably had a slumber party."

"A soiree."

Eric looks over in confusion, an assortment of ties clutched in his hands. "Huh?"

"Blair doesn't have slumber parties anymore," Chuck drawls, leaning against the doorframe. "She has soirees."

"Same difference," Eric frowns.

The corner of Chuck's mouth twitches in amusement. "I dare you to tell her that."

"I'd rather not," Eric winces, shaking his head rapidly. "I prefer Blair's temper when it is directed at someone other than me."

"Don't we all," Chuck snorts.

"How are things going with you and her by the way?" Eric asks, picking a red tie out of the selection he is holding and laying the rest aside.

"They're not."

"At all?"

"At all," Chuck repeats, a hint of bitterness coloring his words. "She hasn't said two words to me since she found Georgina at my suite a couple weeks back."

"Georgina was at your…" Eric squints, and then his eyes suddenly widen in horror. "Oh God! You… You two weren't – "

"No!" Chuck denies emphatically, suppressing a shudder as her remembers the kiss she'd forced him to give, the way she'd pressed against him, her evident arousal. "Hell no! I would never. I hate that bitch."

"Then why was she there?"

"Same reason she was here," Chuck whispers, tasting bile in the back of his throat, imagining he can hear her mocking laughter, her cruel voice.

_Hello Chucky._

A tremor begins in his leg, traveling upwards, leaving him a bit unsteady on his feet, and suddenly all he can smell is her vile vanilla perfume, and his stomach is churning, and the faint scars on his chest where she had marked him as hers ages ago burn like a brand.

Oblivious, Eric's brow furrows in bewilderment. "Having supper?"

"Wreaking havoc," Chuck breathes, willing his racing pulse to slow.

"But what happened last night, her outing me, that… that wasn't on purpose," Eric claims. "That was an accident."

Chuck meets his eyes. Eric is older than he had been when he'd first seen the real Georgina, and he is wiser than many people twice his age, but he still possesses an aura of innocence, and nobody is going to take that from him, not if Chuck can prevent it. "Nothing Georgina Sparks says or does is ever an accident," he grinds out. "It is always premeditated, and you'd do well to remember that."

"What do you – "

"Just don't trust her," Chuck snaps, much more harshly than he intends. "Better yet, stay away from her. And if you can't, you call me. Understand?"

"Not really. No," Eric retorts.

"I just don't want anything to happen to you," Chuck says. And he means to stop there, but the next words tumble out inexplicably. "Not like it happened to me."

"Like what happened to – " Eric begins. Then his voice falters as he notes Chuck's pallid complexion, the thin film of sweat that had broken out upon his skin. "Are you okay?" he asks, moving forward swiftly to grab him, fearing the older boy is about to pass out, and as soon as his hands close over Chuck's arms, he realizes something else. "Chuck, you're… you're shaking."

"It's nothing," Chuck gasps, trying to shrug him off.

But Eric is not to be deterred. "It most definitely is something! What is wrong with you?" he demands, tightening his grip on his brother's elbow, his inquisitive stare boring into him. "You were just fine a minute ago right before… Is this… is this about Georgina?"

"No," Chuck lies, wrenching himself free, and maybe he has a tell just like Blair Waldorf when her mouth doesn't match her eyes because Eric sees through his posturing immediately.

"It is!" the blonde exclaims. "I know it is. What the hell did she do to you?"

Chuck shivers, recalling a glass of champagne…

_Anyone else need a refill?_

…and a leather couch.

_What's wrong Chuck? Not how you envisioned it?_

He swallows, blinking away a stinging in his eyes. "I… Let's just say that she… she took something very precious from me," he stammers, flinching at memories he wishes he could forget.

…_touch her, touch anyone, you'll think of me, of this. _

"And I wasn't ever able to get it back," he continues, unwilling to watch Eric's expression, scared of what he might see reflected there.

"Are you… You're not talking about – "

"Doesn't matter," Chuck interrupts, needing this conversation to end. "It's in the past. Just please avoid her if you possibly can, and let me know if she is making that difficult." He forces a smile and ruffles Eric's hair, feigning normalcy, praying his brother will let it go. "Now, you should get dressed. Big day today. Bigger day tomorrow. Lots of last minute details to attend to. Best not keep the parents waiting. I'll see you at the rehearsal dinner later tonight."

Without waiting for a response, he hurries down the hall, and almost reaches the staircase when Eric calls after him. "Chuck, I… I'm glad you're home."

Chuck pauses at the top of the steps. "Me too."

"And if you ever want to talk about… whatever, I'm more than willing to listen."

Chuck nods, risking a look back at the concern etched into Eric's features. "Thanks. I appreciate that. More than you know." Then he turns, fleeing down the stairs before either of them can say anything more.

He heads straight for the bathroom, locking the door securely behind him, and splashes cold water into his face while he glares at himself in the polished surface of the mirror.

Why is he reacting this way? He had confronted the whore, had told her she had no power over him anymore, and yet here he was freaking out, practically having a nervous breakdown at the mere thought of her. What the hell is his problem?

Get it together Bass. Get it fucking together.

A few minutes later, his emotions once more under rigid control, he goes into the breakfast salon and fixes himself a plate of strawberries and quiche. Trying to stay out of the way of the overstressed staff, he rounds a corner and his eyes narrow when he spots Dan Humphrey loitering outside Serena's bedroom. Whatever is he doing here?

"Well I knew housekeeping was hiring, but I had no idea their standards were so low," Chuck taunts while sideling up to St. Jude's only scholarship kid.

In response, Dan fakes a laugh. "I hate that I have to ask you this, but have you seen Serena?"

"Oh, I've seen _lots_ of Serena," Chuck drawls with deliberate innuendo, relishing the opportunity to needle Humphrey, positive that this will take his mind off the hell spawn. Before he can add to the suggestive insinuation and goad the loser further, however, his mobile rings. Glancing at the caller ID, a flash of hope surges through him as he reads Blair's name on the screen, but he quickly hides it behind a façade of bored disdain as he raises the cell to his ear. "Are you drunk dialing again?" he says by way of greeting as he answers the call, rotating his body away from Dan for a modicum of privacy.

"Is Serena there?" Blair snaps, uncharacteristically ignoring his jibe, and Chuck immediately recognizes the anxiety behind her bitchy tone.

"No, Serena didn't come home last night," he replies, repeating what Eric had told him, a knot of dread forming in his stomach. "I thought she was with you."

"She was," Blair states. "But she left, and then…"

Her words break off abruptly, and she must be hyperventilating into the receiver because her breaths are coming over the line in panicky little rasps, and without even being aware he is doing so, Chuck is already moving towards the exit, his breakfast abandoned on a side table. He stops only long enough to glare at Dan for attempting to follow him and then shuts the door in the Brooklyn eavesdropper's face. "What's going on Waldorf?" he demands afterwards, fear causing his question to come out as a snarl. "Are you okay?"

"I can't really explain right now. Not on the phone," she sighs. "Can… can you come over?"

"I'll be there in fifteen."

"Okay," she whispers. "Hurry, Bass. I need you."

And despite the alarm that has been roused in him, he feels a familiar fluttering in his stomach. "I'm on my way."

**A/N:** So my muse left me to go on vacation for a while, but now I think she has returned. Woot! Thank you to everyone that has been sending me little reminders of how much they were looking forward to an update and my fellow writers on fanforum for their support. And a special thank you to Sam. You are my biggest cheerleader. It is true. *hugs*


	39. Chapter 39

_Well I can't regret it_

_Can't you just forget it?_

_I started something I couldn't finish_

_And if we go down_

_We go down together_

_Best friends means_

_Well best friends means_

-Taking Back Sunday-

Heart beating a staccato rhythm in his chest, Chuck anxiously drums his fingers upon the leather upholstered seats, the muscles in his jaw clenching tighter with every passing second.

Christ can't this limo move any faster? He could _walk_ faster than this!

Rubbing his temples, he tries to will his racing pulse to slow, to ease his taunt shoulders, to tell himself she is fine. But it isn't working. He keeps remembering her last words to him on the phone.

"_Hurry Bass. I need you."_

She _needed_ him. Him. Chuck Bass. Nobody ever said they needed Chuck Bass, not unless it was in the throes of passion and they were begging to be fucked until they saw stars. But Blair hadn't been desperate for sexual release. No, no this time she'd just been _desperate_, her voice bordering on hysteria, and she had turned to him in her panic and by all that is holy he is not about to let her down by being late!

Sitting forward, he jabs his thumb into the button for the intercom. "Arthur!" he snaps. "What the hell is taking so long?"

"Sorry sir," his chauffer replies. "There appears to be an accident in the road ahead that's causing delays."

"Can't you go around it?"

"I've been trying to sir, but the gentleman in the blue SUV next to us has been refusing to let me change lanes."

Chuck peers out the tinted glass at the guy in the Escalade. The prat is either too absorbed in his Blackberry to notice that he is obstructing traffic or he just doesn't give a shit, but if Chuck had to bet, he would place his money on the latter. Snarling in frustration, he jerks the cuff of his sweater back to check his watch and his lips compress into a grim line when he sees the time. He cannot afford to be even one minute late, and he is going to be _extremely_ late unless that mother fucker in the SUV lets Arthur over, and from the way the smug asshole keeps smirking at the limo, Chuck doubts that will happen anytime soon.

Goddamn it.

Glancing at his watch again, he makes a mental calculation and comes to a swift decision. "Do what you can to get to Blair's as soon as possible, and just circle the block when you arrive," he instructs his driver before wrenching his door open and sprinting up the street, almost losing his hastily donned hat as he runs.

He is _not_ going to be late.

And he isn't. He flies into the lobby with a good forty-five seconds to spare and luck is with him because the elevator doors are just starting to slide shut. Dashing forward, he thrusts his hand into the gap to prevent them from closing and steps inside with something akin to triumph… until his gaze lands on Nathaniel.

Then it hits him. Blair hadn't _only_ called him. She must have phoned her white knight as well.

Fucking typical.

"Hey," Chuck offers in greeting. It comes out at a volume barely audible, almost as if he is choking. And perhaps he _is_ choking. Choking on words unspoken.

_I'm sorry. I shouldn't have. I couldn't help myself. I loved her. I love her still. I miss you. Please forgive me. _

Chuck can feel them there hovering, all those things left unsaid, and maybe Nathaniel does too. But the blonde isn't ready to listen. He just shifts his blue eyes away, like Chuck hadn't spoken at all.

How very _mature_.

And yet Chuck doesn't really blame him for not responding. After everything that had happened, the unofficial rules of male friendship that he had been broken, a one word salutation is a rather pathetic attempt at extending an olive branch. He probably wouldn't have responded either, at least not right away.

But when the silence between them grows increasingly awkward as the elevator climbs slowly to the Waldorf penthouse, he can't help but feel a stab of annoyance. Yes, Nate has a reason to be angry because exes were off-limits, but it isn't like he had actually loved Blair. He'd only wanted her back because she'd become happy and vivacious without him, and he couldn't see that being with him was what had made her sullen and insecure in the first place or that the reason she'd blossomed with confidence was because she'd finally found someone who didn't make her feel like she was inferior to her blonde haired best friend.

And it isn't like Chuck had seduced her or gone after her deliberately. He had tried his damnedest to resist her attraction and deny his emotions, but he hadn't been any more successful than Nathaniel himself had been at ignoring what he'd felt for Serena. And while sleeping with Blair may have been a betrayal of the BFF code, it wasn't any worse than Nate's hookup with S had been, and if Blair could forgive Serena, why can't Nate forgive him?

After what seems like an eternity because of the palpable tension between them, the elevator finally stops and the doors slide open. They get out and look around in mutual puzzlement because it appears that nobody is home.

"Maybe this is Blair's idea of a perverse double date," Chuck speculates aloud, once more trying to draw Nathaniel into conversation, but the golden boy is having none of it.

Then Dorota bustles in from the kitchen. "Miss Blair asks that you should wait here," she explains in her highly accented English. "She's on her way now."

Nate, never one for being particularly astute, furrows his brow in astonishment. "She's not even here?"

The maid just shrugs and exits, leaving them alone in the foyer. Nathaniel stands there for a few seconds in stupefaction, but Chuck strolls over to recline upon the chaise, figuring he may as well make himself comfortable. "Well this ought to be good," he muses sardonically, feeling like a fool for rushing over as it now seems obvious that while Blair Waldorf can't lie worth a damn in person, that trait apparently does not extend to telephone conversations. She'd conned both himself and Nate into coming here by acting panicked, and they had fallen for it. They had been skillfully played.

Bitch.

She probably thought if she got them in the same place they'd settle their differences, kiss and make up as it were. Well if that was her intention, however, fat lot of good it's doing. Even months after their friendship had imploded Nate was still spoiling for a fight.

Could _that_ have been what she expected to happen? Had she planned this whole meeting hoping they would come to blows over here? Well, if that is what she wants, she is going to be sorely disappointed. He's already had his ass kicked once because of her, and he isn't about to make it twice.

"I can't believe this," Nate mutters to himself, breezing past Chuck to stare resolutely out the window.

The minutes pass slowly with both former best friends studiously trying to ignore the other's presence and being unable to. They keep stealing covert glances on one another, unwilling to breach the silence, the strain between them becoming suffocating until finally a ding signals the arrival of the elevator, and they both look over expectantly in time to see Blair emerge.

"Well is something actually wrong?" Nate demands. "Or is this just some ploy to get us both here?"

"I meant what I said on the phone," Blair answers. "I need your help." Then a shadow passes behind her eyes. "_We_ need your help."

She loiters outside the elevator in a way that clearly indicates there is something within she wants them to see. Nathaniel stalks forward, Chuck trailing in his wake with growing trepidation, and together they peer inside.

"Oh my God," Nate gasps, and Chuck couldn't have summed it up better himself for Serena is sprawled shoeless on the floor, huddled into a corner, her hair a tangled mess, and her head lolling on her neck in the manner of one heavily intoxicated. But it's her eyes which are the most disturbing. They're glazed and vacant, as if she has no idea of where she is or even _who_ she is.

Oh my God indeed.

Crowding around Serena, the two boys hoist her to her feet and sling one arm over each of their shoulders as they drag her limp form into the penthouse.

"You okay?" Chuck asks, speaking it right into the shell of her ear, and she doesn't react, almost as if she hadn't heard him at all, so he turns his attention to Blair. "What's wrong with her?"

But the petite brunette doesn't give him an answer. Instead she barks out a frantic command, "Take her upstairs." Then she yells for her maid to make coffee before moving to assist with Serena.

Between the three of them, they are able to maneuver the blonde up the steps to Blair's room. The last few feet she even becomes lucid enough that she stops being a dead weight and is able to stumble to the bed with assistance. Once she collapses upon the mattress, however, she's seemingly incoherent again.

"Serena!" Chuck shouts, shaking her by the arm in an effort to rouse her. "What did you take?"

Nate, ever one to point out the obvious, declares, "She's drunk man."

"Clearly Nathaniel," Chuck hisses. "But her pupils are dilated, and that is _not_ caused by alcohol." He reaches down and slaps one of her cheeks lightly, then again harder until her unfocused eyes open a crack. "Serena, tell me what you took. Was it ecstasy? Coke? I need to know."

She groans, slurring something unintelligible before her lids drift shut and she buries her face back into the blankets.

"Damn it," Chuck scowls. "Keep her awake."

He's out the door and halfway down the hall when Blair catches him by the hand. "Where are you going?" she demands, and there is a haunted quality in the depths of her chocolate eyes, one that plainly says, _"Please don't leave me alone with this."_

He squeezes her fingers in reassurance. "I'm just stepping out to get supplies. I'll be right back."

She nods, but her features still look terrified, and suddenly her lower lip trembles and unshed tears glimmer along her lashes, and without even hesitating, he pulls her into a hug. "Keep it together, princess," he murmurs as he rubs her tense shoulders in soothing circles. "I need you to be strong right now." He draws back a fraction to peer into her face. "Can you do that for me? For Serena?"

"Yes," she sniffles, visibly rallying, blinking away her tears, and regaining her composure.

"That's my girl," he breathes, impulsively leaning down to press a quick kiss on her forehead as he cradles her cheek.

"I'm not your girl," she frowns, pulling away.

"Sure you're not," he smirks. "Now go take care of Serena, and I will be back before you know it."

"I am not your girl Bass!"

His only response is to laugh as he heads down the stairs to the elevator, already speed dialing Arthur so the limo will be waiting at the curb for him when he gets there.

Fifteen minutes, a speedy trip to the nearest grocery store, a brief detour at a bakery, and a thorough check of the partied-too-hard-last-night emergency rations he keeps stowed under the seats, and Chuck is once more setting foot in Blair's room with two bulging shopping bags. "So we have every hangover cure known to man," he drawls. "Plus bagels. They should help soak up the alcohol and whatever else she took." Or was slipped, he mentally adds, feeling pretty damn confident that a certain psychotic bitch had to be involved since the timing between Georgina's outing of Eric and Serena's meltdown is too coincidental otherwise. No, no the two events had to be related somehow. And although he doesn't mention it either, the bags also contain a bottle of the morning after pill from his private stash. After the alcohol fueled bender she's been on, he wouldn't be surprised if she'd fucked someone without protection, and it is always better to be safe than sorry in his estimation.

"Thank you. I'll take it from here," Blair says as Nate aids her in moving Serena into the bathroom. Then she's tugging the blonde's wrinkled dress off over her head, and although Chuck doesn't desire Serena and never really has outside of trying to bang her as a way to upset Blair, his gaze habitually drops, raking over her exposed skin before Nathaniel exits the bathroom and shuts the door with an accusatory glare.

"Just like old times," Chuck wryly states.

Still staring at him in disdain, Nate crosses his arms over his chest. "You know, why do I get the feeling you're actually enjoying this?" he sneers, condemnation dripping like venom off his words, making it quite clear that he believes his onetime best friend capable of getting off on seeing Serena stripped down to a bra, never mind that he's seen it dozens of times already and the sight of her pathetically disheveled and wasted and smelling faintly of vomit is not in the least bit arousing.

Judgmental prick.

Before he can formulate an appropriate response, the distinctive sounds of retching filter through the closed door. Glancing toward the noise and then back at Nathaniel, once again thinking how absurd the idea of him wanting to fuck Serena in her present condition is, Chuck deadpans, "Call me sentimental."

He intends the statement to be mocking, but as soon as it leaves his mouth, he realizes that it is also true. He _is_ sentimental. This is the first time the four of them have been together, really together, united in a cause since… well, since the pool incident. But he supposes that hardly counts as he'd been blackmailing Blair at the time. So really, the actual last time would have been… when they were kids, when he'd been eleven, when the hell spawn had announced they'd slept together during a game of 'Never Have I Ever.' Ironic that the whore who had driven them apart in the first place was now the individual bringing them back together. There was something almost poetic about that. Life coming full circle.

Nate scoffs unconvinced, shaking his head in disgust as the toilet flushes.

Then Blair exits the bathroom, clutching Serena's dress. "We may not need those bagels after all," she announces, hooking a thumb towards the doorway.

"What's going on with her?" Nathaniel asks.

"She was here last night, scared," Blair explains. "She… she told me something totally crazy but was too freaked out to find the words to explain it." She pauses to riffle through the bags Chuck had brought seeking out a bottle of water. "I went upstairs to find my mom's valium to calm her down, but when I got back she was gone. Took me all night to find her."

Chuck's gaze narrows in suspicion. "What exactly did she say to you?"

"That's beside the point," she declares. "We're here to help Serena no matter what the problem is."

Despite the conviction in her tone, Chuck notices that she suddenly avoids looking at either himself or Nate directly, and then it hits him. She _knows_. Serena's deep dark secret, the one Georgina has been holding over her head. Blair knows what it is. That has to be it. Georgina using Eric the previous evening must have convinced Serena to end the slut's hold on her, so she had confessed to her BFF, and whatever she'd started to reveal had frightened Blair, so she'd ran and tried to party the whole thing away.

What on earth could be that bad?

"Blair – "

"I'm going to go see what's taking Dorota so long with the towels," she interrupts, her tone overly bright, the way it always is when she's feeling particularly overwhelmed before she scurries into the hall and away from the questions in his eyes.

Instinctively, he starts after her, and is almost all the way across the room when Nate moves to block his path. "Where do you think you're going?"

"I… I was just…" Chuck stammers. Then he spots the abandoned grocery bags, and snatches one up. "I'm going to get the bagels ready."

"I thought Blair said we wouldn't need the bagels."

Great. Today is the day the golden boy decides to become observant.

"She did," Chuck shrugs evasively. "But just in case." And before Nate can form a reply, he hurries downstairs, searching for Blair.

He finds her in the dining room, leaning heavily against the oak table, her shoulders slumped, exhaustion etched into her features. "Hey," he murmurs, altering her to his presence and instantly she straightens, all traces of weariness disappearing behind her veneer of perfection. "How you holding up?"

"I'm fine."

He nods absently, choosing not to comment on the lie. Instead he reaches into the depths of the plastic bag and pulls out a tiny paper sack. "Here," he says extending it to her.

Gingerly, she takes it from him, their fingers accidently touching, threatening to ignite a blaze within him until she draws her hand back. "What is it?" she inquires, her voice just the slightest bit husky, proof that he wasn't the only one affected by the brief skin on skin contact. She might feign and try to deny their spark, their heat, their fireworks, but she feels it just as strongly as he does.

Secure in the knowledge that she will be his eventually, he smirks. "A surprise."

Her brows knit together. "For me?"

"Naturally."

"Why?"

He sighs, for once tiring of the verbal repartee. "Twenty questions after you open it, Waldorf."

Scrunching up her nose in an adorable fashion, she peers into the sack as if afraid of what it contains. Then she blinks in astonishment. "You got me a croissant?"

"Close," he yawns nonchalantly. "I got you a _pain au chocolat_."

Her eyes light up. "This is a – "

"Chocolate filled croissant, yes," he grins.

"But… but why?"

"I know they're you favorite, and you almost never let yourself indulge in them, and unless I am greatly mistaken, you haven't eaten anything since you started searching for Serena last night, and if you faint, you won't be able to help clean her up. And although I joke about the prospect of sibling bathing, I think the reality of that would be fucking awkward, so please just eat it and spare me and Serena the trauma."

Laughing, Blair pulls the pastry out and bites into it. "Mmm," she moans as she chews, a look of pure bliss covering her face. "It's still warm."

"Good," he smiles. "I hoped it would be." Then he reaches out to brush an errant crumb from the corner of her mouth before he can suppress the impulse. She gasps softly, a quick intake of air, and his thimb lingers on the fullness of her bottom lip for a moment as he meets her eyes and sees a hunger there that has nothing to do with food.

"Chuck?" she breathes.

He swallows. "Yeah?"

"I… I…"

And suddenly they're only inches apart, electricity crackling between them, a veritable firestorm of pent up desire waiting to be unleashed, and her irises are ebony pools he would happily drown in, and the sensual little whimper that escapes her throat is all the consent he needs to close the distance and crush her to him.

Before he can lower his head to kiss her like they've both been craving, however, Dorota walks in. "Miss Blair, I… oh!"

Immediately, Blair leaps backwards as if scalded, and even though the maid had already gone, the spell is broken. "Oh my God!" she exclaims, a blush rising in her cheeks.

"It's okay," Chuck soothes. "She didn't see anything."

"That isn't the point!" Blair huffs. "What if that had been Serena? Or Nate?"

His jaw tenses in unexpected rage. "Oh, so we're back to that again?" he snarls. "I'm the guy who's good enough to screw so long as nobody ever finds out?"

"Chuck, I didn't mean – "

"Fuck you Waldorf!" he grinds out. "I'm done being your dirty little secret!" And without another word, he leaves her standing there as he stomps to the kitchen. He spends forever in there, calming himself down, getting his emotions firmly under his control again.

Once he's accomplished that, he walks back towards the foyer, carrying a plate stacked with bagels. As he rounds the corner, he spots Dan Humphrey. That does not bode well. The eavesdropping bastard must have put the pieces together and figured out where his missing girlfriend was.

"Huh. Guess I missed a chapter," Dan muses. Then his gaze focuses on Chuck moving forward rapidly to flank Blair. "Or four." He gestures between the three of them with an almost comically confused grin. "Don't uh… don't all of you hate each other?"

They answer almost simultaneously.

"Yes."

"Absolutely."

But Chuck's voice rises about the others' affirmations. "No!" he announces with a shake of his head as he lays his dish upon the end table. He doesn't hate them. He _can't_ hate them. But even if he did, he would never admit that in front of Humphrey. Not right now. Standard operating procedure for saving Serena's ass: keep a united front. Blair and Nate seem to have forgotten that, but _he_ hasn't.

Nonplussed by their lack of a cohesive agreement about the nature of their relationships, Dan mutters, "Well that's fascinating and ripe for a psychiatrist's case study somewhere but um… I am looking for Serena."

Chuck's response is immediate. "She's not here."

"I think she is," Dan retorts.

"No she just left," Blair chimes in. "You must have crossed paths."

The Brooklyn boy sets his jaw in stubborn determination. "I don't believe you."

"Fine," Blair sighs, and Chuck knows from years of experience that she is stalling for time, giving herself a couple seconds to come up with a more credible lie. "I… I didn't want to have to tell you this but… she doesn't want to see you."

"Come. Really?" Dan snorts in disbelief.

Blair nods, a pitying expression on her face. "Yes. Really."

The charity case looks at the three of them as if deliberating, then he strides towards the stairs. "Serena!"

As one, they move to block his path.

"She's telling the truth man," Nate insists, and although Chuck knows it is a lie, it sounds pretty sincere, especially coming from the golden boy.

"Are you really gonna stop me from seeing my girlfriend?" Humphrey demands. He stares at them each in turn, and when they say nothing, he exhales loudly and tries to break through to the steps until Chuck pushes him firmly backwards. "Come on!" he shouts.

A voice drifts down to them. "What are you doing?"

They all turn, and there stands Serena above them wrapped in a purple robe, her haggard appearance making her appear frail and sickly. "S!" Blair starts in concern as the blonde descends the steps.

But Serena is quick to appease her. "It's okay." She draws her boyfriend slightly apart to talk.

"What's happening?" he asks.

"Dan – " Serena begins.

He cuts her off. "Something's going on and I just want to be let in on what it is."

"It's hard to explain."

In frustration, Dan starts to bury his face in his hands, then stops the impulse. "Well let me make it easy for you," he grinds out. "I know you're keeping something from me, and I'm sick of being the only one you don't talk to about it."

"I'm not talking to anyone," the blonde says, trying to reassure him.

"Then what are _they_ doing here while I get a call from a bartender who says you left a bar at two in the morning with a bunch of guys?" he snaps. "What guys Serena? Who… who were they?"

Serena swallows. "I don't know."

"Did something happen last night?

"Please don't," she whimpers, a fearful entreaty for him to let this subject go for now.

Dan, however, isn't about to let it go. "Is that… is that what you're so afraid to tell me? That you cheated on me?" He pauses, waiting for Serena to reply, but she doesn't. "Did you cheat on me last night?" he inquires after a few moments of silence, and once again the seconds stretch out as Serena refuses to answer. "All I need is a yes or a no," he breathes with supreme control. "Did you sleep with someone else?"

For the longest time, Serena does nothing. Then finally, she gives the smallest of nods. "Yes. Yeah."

For a tense second Dan doesn't respond, and Chuck actually has to glance away from the look on his face. It is so painfully raw, like peering into someone's soul as their world shatters, and it just feels wrong to stare. And although Chuck doesn't like him, and probably never will, his heart kind of goes out to the guy, and he wonders if that is what his own expression had been like when he saw Blair kissing Nate the eve of her cotillion.

"I'm done," Humphrey says at last. "I'm done."

And without another word, Dan leaves, fleeing from the scene where his dreams had died probably as fast as Chuck himself had fled from that damned debutant ball, and even though Chuck has never been much of a gambling man, he would bet money that if the Brooklyn boy had access to a private jet, he'd probably be on his way to Monaco too.

As soon as the elevator doors slide shut, however, Serena sobs, swaying on her feet as if she is going to faint, and even though they all start forward to catch her, it is Blair who reaches her first and prevents her from collapsing upon the tiled floor until she regains her balance and turns to regard them all.

"I can't believe I just did that," the blonde gasps, hugging herself and shifting her weight from side to side in extreme agitation.

"Then why did you?" Nate asks. "I mean, did you cheat on Dan?"

"No," Serena insists. "I remember last night, and I didn't do anything."

"Then why would you say that to him?" Blair inquires, her tone puzzled.

Chuck isn't puzzled though, and he doesn't have to ask why Serena lied to her boyfriend. He's pretty sure he already knows. After all, he had done something quite similar to Blair way back when they were kids, when she had confronted him about why he was suddenly acting like a different person shortly after Georgina had entered their lives, and he had sneered that it wasn't any business of hers so that she didn't get dragged into the malicious bitch's web with him.

"Because I would rather Dan think I cheated on him than know what I really did," Serena explains, confirming Chuck's suspicions. She'd hurt Humphrey now to prevent him greater hurt later on.

"What you really did?" Nate echoes in bafflement.

"Dan puts me on a pedestal," Serena wails. "If he knew the truth, he would never look at me again." Covering her face, she attempts to flee but they just follow her into the next room, clustering around her.

"You're starting to scare even me," Chuck admits. "What did you do?"

"Come on. You can tell us," Nate encourages.

Blair sits beside her on the couch. "We've seen you with vomit in your hair making out with investment bankers in the men's room at PJ Clark's," she half teases. "You don't have to hide anything from us."

"She's right Serena," Nate says. "I mean none of us are saints."

"Yeah," Blair concurs, gesturing at Chuck. "I had sex with him in the back of a limo."

"Several times," Chuck notes with wicked glee.

"I had sex with you at a wedding while I was her date," Nathaniel volunteers next, tossing a challenging look in Chuck's direction. "Once."

And Chuck has to fight an impulse to laugh because that would not help matters, even though he finds Nate's pseudo self-righteous behavior hysterical. The golden boy acting all high and mighty because he'd only banged Serena once? Please! Everyone in this room knew it had only been a onetime thing because S had fled to boarding school and refused to give it another go when she'd returned. Nathaniel would have cheated on Blair with her best friend again without a second's pause if the blonde had been up for it, and they all knew it, even if he was the only one willing to acknowledge it.

Then Blair peers at Chuck expectantly, raising her eyebrows to indicate that it is his turn for a deep, dark secret confession.

"I'm Chuck Bass," he sneers, and Blair's gaze narrows slightly, perhaps with the remembrance of when he had thrown that phrase back in her face when she had made him seem the epitome of evil.

"You can tell us anything," Blair insists, focusing her attention back onto Serena. "We don't judge. We're the non-judging breakfast club. We're your best friends. Anything you do is something we do too."

Serena hesitates, looking at each of them in turn, her gaze lingering on Chuck a second longer than the others. "If I tell you, it can never leave this room."

As one, they nod in agreement, and then Serena exhales deeply, partly in relief, partly in resignation. "You all know Georgina Sparks."

"Some of us better than others," Blair quips, giving Chuck a significant look as his expression quickly transforms into an unreadable mask. "It's not like you didn't lose your virginity to her in seventh grade."

"Sixth actually," Chuck corrects, his lip curling slightly with contempt. "And I've been avoiding her ever since. The bitch is a psycho."

Blair bristles, probably about to hurl out some nasty comeback seeing as she'd discovered the slut at Chuck's suit two weeks prior, but Nate interjects. "What about her?"

"Well something happened the night of the Shepard wedding," Serena mutters.

"We're all aware of what happened that night," Blair points out, shifting uncomfortably.

"No, something else," the blonde clarifies. "Something I've tried to escape, but Georgina won't let me. And now she's blackmailing me."

"Blackmailing you?" Nate repeats incredulous, and Chuck is reminded once more of just how very sheltered his friend's upbringing has been. Blackmail is almost as common as divorce and substance abuse in Manhattan. Hell, it's practically the preferred currency of the Upper East Side.

"With what exactly?" Chuck asks, getting right to the crux of the problem.

"Well it started when Blair thought you and I had too much to drink," Serena continues, directing her monologue at Nathaniel. "She told us to go outside, get some air, sober up. Instead, we went into the empty bar. I opened a bottle of champagne…"

"We can skip that part. Okay?" Blair grimaces, clearly not desiring to know any more details about the hookup.

"Go ahead. I'll fill her in later," Chuck prompts with just a hint of innuendo, earning himself a sharp look from Blair that sets his butterflies into overdrive. God he loves when she's bitchy.

Oblivious, Serena rambles on. "I left in a hurry. I felt so terrible, so guilty for what I had just done. I just… I had to get out of there. Georgina and I had plans to meet up after, so I headed straight to her. Little did I know she had a surprise waiting for me. She had a room for us at the Eastview Hotel and Pete Fairman was with her and they had all this cocaine and I didn't know it at the time, but she was taping me. Lucky for me, I was, I was too stuck on what had just happened to be too much fun for anyone. But Pete was insistent and he kept touching me and we started kissing and… making out and… and then…"

"You starred in an amateur porno?" Chuck snorts. "And here you had us all worried for nothing."

"You are not helping!" Blair hisses, her temper flaring. "Serena has every right to be mortified.'

"About a low budget porno? Please," Chuck scoffs. "What's the worst that could happen? Whoregina puts in online? Big deal. It'll get lost in a sea of better porn within twenty-four hours."

"Well I'm sure you know all about the porn industry!" Blair accuses.

"Like you've never taken matters into your own hands!" Chuck spits.

"How dare you imply that – "

"Hey guys?" Nate cuts in. "We're here for Serena, remember? Now is not the time for this." He runs his hand through his shaggy hair and offers the blonde an apologetic smile. "So is Chuck right? Is that what happened? Did you unknowingly make a sex tape?"

Serena shakes her head vehemently. "No. No it's nothing like that. We didn't _do_ anything. We just… I just…" She stops, failing to master a shudder that effectively takes all the fight out of both Chuck and Blair.

"What is it?" the brunette whispers.

Crumpling in upon herself, Serena buries her face behind her manicured hands. "I can't."

Blair reaches out to rub one of her quaking shoulders. "Yes, yes you can."

"I'm scared," Serena whimpers.

"We're right here," Blair reminds her.

"I wasn't in the mood, so told Pete to snort some lines, hoping he'd get distracted enough to leave me alone, and it worked," Serena whispers as if in great pain. "But then he started convulsing like he was having a seizure and there was this white froth coming out of his mouth and… and… and…" She breaks off stuttering, unable to complete the sentence, unwilling to describe the scene.

But Chuck doesn't need more details; he knows the signs. "He overdosed," he says, sparing her from having to speak the horror aloud.

Serena tosses him a grateful look. "Yes, and I was scared and Georgina panicked because there was blow all over the room and if the cops came and found us there, we could get arrested. So we gathered up our stuff and I used Pete's phone to call 911 and then we left him there. We made it to the lobby, and then Georgina told me we had to split up. She said that people might be looking for us. But I, I couldn't go. I just couldn't. So I, I waited near the hotel across the street. All I wanted was to see the paramedics helping Pete. But that's not what I saw. I didn't know what to do. I, I just knew I had to leave right away. I took a train heading north and I got a room and convinced my mom that boarding school was a good idea and – "

"Never said goodbye," Blair finishes. "It makes sense now."

"But what does she even want from you?" Nate inquires.

"Well when she came back I told her that I had moved on from the lifestyle that she was still in, but she didn't like that," Serena explains, and somehow Chuck thinks Georgina not liking her protégé moving on without her is the understatement of the century. "So somehow she became friends with Dan and Vanessa and, and called herself Sarah."

"Why don't you just tell Dan about her?" Blair says.

"Because she has that tape of me, and she'll use it," Serena whines. "It's practically a snuff film."

Chuck grits his teeth at that, realizing for the first time how utterly the hell spawn has played on Serena's guilt. The poor girl is practically calling herself a murderer. "We need to find her," he growls.

"No please!" Serena begs, grasping Chuck's hand and then reaching out to take hold of Blair's as well. "Promise me please. Promise me you won't do anything," she sobs. "Because if you do then she'll show Dan. If he even ever speaks to me again. God what have I done?"

"We won't do anything," Chuck soothes, but his dark gaze locked with Blair's proposes exactly the opposite, and with a minute lowering of her chin, the petite brunette silently agrees.

Georgina Sparks _must_ be dealt with.

**A/N:** Special thanks to Sam for her continued support. Even when her life gets difficult, she always finds time for me. *hugs* Also, I am going to be starting my move back to Arizona tomorrow, so I won't be updating again for about a week. Take care, and I'll see you when I get settled.


End file.
